A Pilot's Wife
by SVUlover4015
Summary: Olivia Benson, a New York City SVU cop and the wife of James Dean O'Connell, a pilot for American Airlines, mysteriously crashes off the coast of Ireland, where Olivia is left wondering if he had more to his life than just her. While the investigation goes on, Olivia finds comfort in Elliot Stabler. (EO & adaption from book "the pilots wife" svu style)
1. White Noise

"Liv, come here! We've got a couple of Guinness's' here for ya"

Olivia turns around, taking her eyes off the moving waves she walks towards Elliot, her hair out of her face, he stares at her, her jawline exposed from the frame of her hair, her skin, olive toned, her eyes, happy.

"Here" Elliot says tossing a Guinness towards her, Olivia catching it as if it were a football

She takes off the cap with the end of the collapsible table Elliot had brought, she looks towards Cragen and Munch arguing about the assassination of JFK, and then there's Fin who's asleep in the sun, a beer can in his hand.

It's the 4th of July and the one six was hosting a barbeque, it was getting late, almost hitting nine, but that was when the fireworks started. She wished James was here, next to her, but he was somewhere in the middle of the sky, 40,000 above, flying himself and some other three hundred people on a direct flight to Dublin, Ireland. She wondered if planes could see fireworks, if the pilot's who had to fly on the fourth ever got to enjoy the fireworks, or if they were dodging them, trying not to go down, leaving three hundred people, including themselves, without a family.

"Mommy!" A little girl says, runs towards Olivia and Elliot where Olivia picks her up in her arms, cradling her head.

The little girl is about four, with tumbling curly dark brown hair, in a stars and stripes jumpsuit. Elliot looks at Olivia, he knew for years she wanted a child, and she found someone that could make her happy. For years, she walked around with a weight on her shoulders, the weight of being alone, and as soon as she found someone, she changed. Elliot had noticed she took time to fix her hair, make up, maybe even a snazzy outfit at work. He loved Olivia, and all he wanted was her to be happy.

The fire works start, and her face reflects the blue and red hues. Elliot comes up from behind her, putting his arm around her shoulder, and Olivia leans her head onto his shoulder and she holds Julia in her arms.

"James isn't here, but I know he'd probably be tackling you to the ground for this prime real estate" Olivia scoffs, looking at his arm.

"Hey, no need, calm down, I'm just a fill in for today, aren't you and him going on a few years now?"

"Yeah, almost five."

"You're welcome" Elliot says in a cocky son of a bitch way

"Ah, for what exactly?" she says, pulling away from Elliot's shoulder, looking him in the face

"Him, I introduced you to James remember?"

* * *

Elliot was right, he did introduce her. She had been going to one of his St. Patrick's Day parties, where he had a load of drunk cops, particularly Irish, screaming across the room, trying to talk to each other. Olivia enjoyed the parties though, she was able to do whatever she wanted, free, away from work. A man that looked remotely similar to Elliot came up to her and Elliot with a handsome man, probably in his late 30's. He had black hair, green eyes, broad shoulders, and a structured face.

"Hai Olivio, meet Jackk-James"

His cousin was clearly drunk.

"Alright Declan, I get it, go off now, I'll talk with her."

Elliot smiles at James, and looks at Olivia.

"James, nice to see you, meet my partner, Olivia."

James shakes her hand.

"James Dean O'Connell, nice to meet you"

"Olivia Benson" Olivia says, responding with the hand shake

"I'll leave you two alone."

Elliot walks off with a beer in his hand and he turns around, winking at her as she pleads at him with her "don't leave me with this man" look.

James sits down next to her, looking at her, he smirks

"You Irish?"

Olivia smiles.

"I'm not sure really."

"You could probably pass, it doesn't matter, everyone's Irish on Paddy's day."

Olivia laughs and notices he doesn't have a beer in his hand.

"You clearly have an Irish name, why aren't you drinking?"

"Pilot's can't drink within 12 hours of a flight"

"So you're a pilot?"

"Yes mam, for American Airlines."

"And you?" James asks, tipping his head to her

"Typical sex crimes cop"

* * *

"I went to one of your parties, your cousin introduced us."

"That doesn't mean-"

"If I didn't invite you"

Olivia rolls her eyes at him, but his cocky attitude just makes her appreciate him even more.

Olivia puts Julia down and hands her a slice of blue and red cake from the table.

"Julia, go give your old man Munch a big slice of cake for him okay?"

"Where are your kids?" She asks, leaning into his chest, he wraps his arms around her

"With Kathy, they're all out of college and wanted to get drunk you know, even if they can drink, around me, they can't act like that"

"You're a great dad you know"

"You think I don't know that" Elliot laughs, smiling down at Olivia

* * *

The constant doorbell sound interrupts her sleep, her dream skittering out the window. A repetitive sound that irritates her ears. She opens her eyes, the street light shining in from the window. She rolls over in bed, her hand touching the empty side of the bed. James' side. Her heart stops. It skips a beat, and she forces herself to turn on the lamp on her nightstand.

Her hand travels up the brass, the light invasive to her eyes. She immediately feels ghost white, the room as if its the waiting room of a family she'd usually have to wait with at a hospital for a victim. Thoughts came to her head, Julia. Then James. Then neighbor. Then car accident. But Julia was in bed, where was James? Her head hurts from the light. The doorbell still rings. Knocking starts. James was where? She scatters to remember where he's flying. Dublin. Direct flight from JFK. A seven hour flight. How long had she been sleeping for? James was five hours ahead. It's two am, she hadn't gotten home until twelve thirty am from the barbeque and fireworks. Elliot had dropped her and Julia off, where Olivia had to carry her in and put her to bed. Its nearly seven am in Dublin, Jack should be due home at dinner time.

Her head brings her back to the present, the doorbell constantly ringing. Her feet hit the floorboards in the old brownstone. James had made enough money to afford one. James, Julia, and herself lived on the bottom section, as her neighbor, Margaret, a 72 year old woman who babysat Julia frequently, lived on top. She wondered how the floors of a wooden house lost it's warmth even in summer nights. The black sweats she had been wearing were rolled up to her calves, the blue shirt, James'. He had left it on the chair before he had left. It still smells like him.

She didn't hear the ringing anymore, maybe she'd dreamt it. But James was in Ireland, and Julia was in bed. This time, three sharp knocks on glass. And the sound of dogs barking in the distance. She walked in a fast motion, unlatching the lock to her door, hopefully not wanting to wake Julia. Walking through the kitchen, she found herself into the hallway leading to the front door. Through the frosted glass she could make out the usual black ford sedan, and a coated figure with a hat outside the door. Her hand reached for the switch to the light of the front porch, where she turned it on. The figure reacted, moving in front of the glass, no t looking through, as if it were rude to at nearly two am in the morning.

She opened the door. The man had a head of black hair, slicked back, his collar turned upwards, and his hands at his sides, his shoulders hunched. She made a judgement then, the long face, slightly sad, decent clothes, a handsome face, as she stepped back, she thought, not a burglar, not a rapist, definitely not a rapist. He spoke before she could.

"Mrs O'Connell?"

Nobody used James' name as part of hers. She was always Benson. And then she knew.

It was the way he said her name, the fact he knew her name at all. It was in his eyes, the quick breath he took before saying her name. He took a step inside the door way, where she turned away from the door, bending at the waist, her hand to her chest. He reached his hand through the doorway, touching her at the small of her back.

She flinched. She tried to straighten up, but she couldn't.

"When?" she asked.

"Earlier this morning." he said

"Where?"

"Off the coast of Western Ireland, near the Cliffs of Moher, about five miles off"

"In the water?"

"No, in the air"

"Oh..." she brought her hands up to her mouth

"It almost certainly was an explosion"

"You sure it was James?"

He looks at his feet and then at her again.

"Yes."

He caught her shoulders as she went down. She was embarrassed for the slightest second, but she didn't care, her legs gave out from underneath her. She hadn't known her body could give up on her like that, how it could just collapse. The man gently lowered her down to the floor. Her back was against the wall, her arms around her knees, and a white noise in her head. She couldn't hear what he was saying. Knowingly, she tried to fill her lungs with air, to take in the air and to process what she had been told.

For a few seconds she felt as if she was being held down, rather she was being lifted up. She allowed the man to help her up.

"I'm going to be-"

She pushed the man away with the palms of her hands.

She runs to the kitchen, her entire day's worth of food leaving her. He walks into the kitchen, taking his coat and hat off, putting it onto the kitchen chair. He takes her arm and sits her in the corner of the room. Olivia stares at the stranger who goes through her cupboard, grabbing a tea cup, and setting up the tea kettle. He places the empty cup in front of her.

He put the tea in her cup and realized she was shivering.

"You're in shock, where can I get you a blanket?"

"The living room."

Her voice is raspy but she forces herself to talk. He closes the front door.

"You're with the airlines aren't you?"

"No. The union."

Olivia nodded slowly, trying to process what had happened in the last twenty minutes.

"Robert Shriver"

She nodded.

"I'm here to help, this is going to be difficult. Is your daughter here?"

"You know I have a daughter?" and then she thought, of course you do.

"Would you like me to tell her?"

Olivia shook her head.

"They always said the union gets here first."

She's completely oblivious to his question.

"No. She needs to rest before she's told anything."

The telephone rings, the simple ringing puts Olivia into a numb state. Robert gets up and picks up the receiver.

"No comment." he said

"No comment."

"No comment."

She watched him hang up the receiver and place his head in his hands.

She looked at the man's shirt, a blue pinstriped shirt, carefully ironed. All she could see was a plane blowing up in the blue sky, turning it into a cloud of grey.

Olivia wanted the man from the union to walk out the door, to tell her he had made a mistake. He had gotten the wrong plane. The wrong pilot. The wrong James.

"Is there someone you want me to call? To be with you?"

"No". She said. "Yes". She paused. "No."

Her eyes fixed on something in an open cabinet. Shoe shine. James'. He had shined his shoes on the chair in the kitchen in his uniform, a sort of ritual before he would leave to the airport.

It had always been hard for her, for her to have James leave, no matter how much she looked forward to being alone and having the time to herself. She hadn't been afraid of him crashing in a plane, but just the act of him leaving. Even with his flight bag and hat in another, she felt as if he was separating from her. Of course he was, he was leaving her to lift a 170 ton plane into air and to fly off to Italy, London, or even Sweden. Olivia had gotten used to his absence, and then three or four days later, the entire cycle would start again.

He would say he was just a bus driver driving people to and forth everyday.

Used to say, she thought. She took a breath in, a painful one.

"Mrs. O'Connell?

"Olivia"

"Is there a tv I nearby I could keep a eye on? I need to see what they're reporting right now?"

"Yeah, it's actually hidden behind the microwave, just move over there and you can see it. Keep it low."

She could imagine it now. Julia waking up as if it was time to get ready for school. Instead, Olivia would have to tell her that Daddy was gone. Her arms would wrap around the crying toddler. Draped over her like a curtain.

Olivia opened her eyes, her eyes sore from her dry eyes. The murmur of a television was in the background. It's nearly three thirty.

"Robert?"

"I want you to call my partner. Elliot Stabler. "

Robert takes his cell phone out of his pocket until Olivia stops him.

"Not now. Until the morning. I'm just going to try and sleep for at least a few more hours."

"Alright, I'll be down here."

Before Olivia goes upstairs she turns and looks at Robert, who pulls out a cigarette, walking towards the door.

"You can smoke in here, no need to go out in the middle of the night. Just use a glass in the cupboard for an ash tray."

Robert looks at her, yet another wife he's had to tell that he husband is dead. He lights his cigarette and takes a puff.

* * *

 _ **If you want me to continue, just leave a review. Tell me what you think.**_


	2. Routine

Her eyes are swollen. Puffy even. Olivia opens her eyes and cringes at the light that's shining through. She looks at the clock and see's that it's six thirty am. She'd been asleep for three hours. James had been dead for four. The realization makes her heart sink. Within the same day, it's as if she's reliving the moment where she felt the coldness of the room, the emptiness of it. The room that held together a husband and wife.

She makes her way downstairs, the stairs creaking, Julia still asleep and her door closed, shutting out the reality that would face her soon. There she saw Robert Shriver, at the edge of the sofa, staring into the television, where an older woman was being interview on tv. The headline: Plane goes down on West Coast of Ireland; 345 dead, including pilots.

Olivia had missed the beginning of the report, from what she could hear she thought it was ABC or maybe even CNN. Robert looked from behind his shoulder and saw the widow staring at the tv.

"Are you sure you want to see this?"

"Please, I'd rather see." Olivia says, wrapping her arms around herself and leaning against the back of the couch

On the lit up screen she could see there was rain blowing down onto the older woman and the reporter. On the bottom part of the screen, the location. The location where James went down, where his final moments were. Liscannor, County Clare, Ireland. Olivia couldn't picture on a map. In fact, she didn't know if it was in Northern Ireland or the Republic of Ireland. The rain came down the sunken in cheekbones of the old woman, her puffy eyes noticeable. The camera moved away and showed the background of a village, many with small bnbs, cottages, and a landscape of endless green stretching. In the back there was a sad looking hotel, the Clare hotel. In the background, six or seven men, drinking coffee, cigarettes in their hand, looking over at the news crew, wondering what could of happened that would drag a news crew to such a remote place.

The camera panned back to the old woman, her blue eyes now grey, matching the rest of her face. She looked as if it was hard for her to breathe. Olivia thought, she probably looked gray in the face now. Her eyes, staring out at something as if nothing was there. The mouth loose, like a hooked fish trying to escape but slowly dying. The interviewer was a young woman, maybe twenty-eight or so, dark brown hair, eyes green, her accent thick. She had asked the old woman to describe what she'd seen.

 _"There were bits falling from the sky, as if it part of the rain."_

 _"The pieces, they fluttered...like birds"_

 _"Falling downwards, into the sea, hitting the ocean with a splash"_

Olivia walked up to the tv, kneeling on the carpet, her face even with the old woman's. A reflection perhaps of what she was. The woman made gestures with her hands, her hands mimicking the downward falling of a blown up plane. She'd seen fisherman hustling their boats to the sight, but it was too late to catch the bits, even with their fisherman nets. The reporter faced the camera, having said the old woman's name, Laura McSweeney, age 82, had said she had apparently been the first eye witness to come forward. Nothing had been confirmed yet as to what the woman had seen. Olivia wanted so much to tell the woman that it couldn't be true, that it wasn't her James that had been killed.

But Olivia knew it was true, that James was dead. She could imagine the fisherman out on the sea, trying to catch the fluttering bits, as if a child grabbing for fireflies on a hot summer's night. Olivia thought then how strange it was for such a disaster to drain the body entirely of blood, to take the air out of your lungs, and to hit you again in the face, could be at such times, a beauty.

Robert turned off the television.

"Are you alright?"

"When did you say it happened?"

"Seven am, their time. Two am ours."

She looked at him and noticed his fair skin, his eyes filled green, with specks of yellow. James' eyes had been green. Two different shades of green, one a light yellowish green, the other, a sharper green. Other's had been drawn to his eyes, the unusual coloring attracting others.

"That was the time of the last transmission." The man said, barely loud enough to be audible

Olivia looked back up at the man, clearly he hadn't slept for a day, his under eyes dark, almost a blueish color, as if bruised.

"What was the last transmission?"

"It was routine."

The short answer that had avoided her question irritated her, she didn't believe him. What was routine about a last transmission?

"Do you know" she asked, "what the most common words are for a pilot before he goes down?", "well of course you know."

"Mrs. O'Connell"

"Olivia" she snapped

"You're still in shock, you should have some sugar, is there any juice?"

"In the fridge, it was a bomb wasn't it?"

"I wish I had more to tell you."

Robert stood up and walked towards the kitchen. Olivia, realizing she didn't want to be left alone, followed him. He reached inside the fridge and took out orange juice. Olivia glanced at the clock. Six forty-five. Had it only been nearly four hours ago that she'd been told the worst news of her life? Robert handed her the orange juice.

"You got here fast"

"How did you do it?" she asked

"We have a plane" he murmured, leaning against the kitchen counter

He lit a cigarette and inhaled, blowing out the smoke, leaving it to float in the room. The sunlight hitting it in such a way, that it reminded Olivia of the smoke from James' plane blowing up.

"No, I mean, tell me, you have a plane that goes down, are you just sitting around waiting for a crash?"

"No, I don't. But if one does occur, we have a procedure ready, we have a jet ready to go at any time at Washington National. It flies me to nearest major airport, in this case, JFK."

"And then?"

"And then there's a car waiting."

"And you did it in..."

Olivia thought how long it would take for him to travel from Washington DC, where the union headquarters was, all the way to JFK. She was interrupted in her thoughts.

"A little over an hour."

"To get here first" he said. "To inform you. To help you through it."

"That's not why she said quickly."

He thought a minute.

"It's part of it."

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, her head resting in the palm of her hand. The pain seemed to stretch all the way from her throat to her abdomen. She felt panicky, as if she strayed to close to edge of a cliff. She drew in a breath so sharply, Robert looked at her. She moved into another room, the way grief moved through a person.

The images assaulted her. The feeling of James' breath at the top of her spine, as if he were whispering to her bones. The sliding sensation against her mouth when he gave her a quick kiss before going off to work. The drape of his arm around her, watching Julia go off to kindergarten. The odd tenderness of his feet, the way he wouldn't walk on a beach without shoes on. The warmth of him always, even on the coldest of New York winter nights, as though he himself burned as if he were a furnace. The images fought each other for space inside her head, she tried to stop them but she couldn't.

She awoke from her flashbacks and called for Robert, who stood in the hallway, looking at the sad figure that graced the stairwell.

"Did you call Elliot?"

"I didn't know if you wanted me or..."

"Just call him, his number is on the fridge. He should be on his way to work."

* * *

It's nearly seven am in the morning and Elliot's already out the door and pulling up in front of the nearest coffee shop he can find. He had texted Olivia if she wanted him to pick her up. She hadn't answered and assumed she would find her way to one by herself and come waltzing into the one six, complaining about how damn hot the weather was in July. He finally gets in line, a solid six people ahead of him, he sighs in frustration.

Elliot shifts his feet and can feel his gun cocking into the side of his hip, enough to bother him that he adjusts footing. There's a tv in the corner of the coffee shop, a early morning new's report about some vaccine. Suddenly, everyone move's their head towards the tv.

 _"We interrupt this news cast, for the following report."_

A reporter from ABC, someone remarkably familiar that Elliot can't name, shows up on the screen. The bottom section of words reading: American plane explodes off coast of Western Ireland

 _"Around seven am, Ireland time, an American plane was seen exploding off the coast of Western Ireland, in Liscannor, County Clare. An eyewitness has come forward"_

The same news report that Olivia had seen earlier shows up.

 _"There were bits falling from the sky, as if it part of the rain."_

 _"The pieces, they fluttered...like birds"_

 _"Falling downwards, into the sea, hitting the ocean with a splash"_

The reporter mentions that all East Coast flight's will be stopping air traffic to Ireland and the surrounding areas, in the case that the even involved terrorism. He's at the front of the line and his cell phone rings.

Unknown.

He answers despite the unknown caller ID.

"Stabler."

"Hello, is this Elliot Stabler?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"I'm Robert Shriver, I'm calling in behalf of Olivia-"

"What? Is she ok?" Elliot says, interrupting the man

"Yes but this is in regards to her request for you... her husband was involved in an accident."

Elliot suddenly realizes. James. A pilot. An American pilot. Olivia had told him he was flying to Ireland the morning after fourth of July.

"Is he alright?" Elliot asks carefully, regretting his question

"All 345 passengers were killed." Robert says, inhaling deeply

"I'm coming over. Be there in ten."

Elliot hangs up and looks at the woman who waits for his order. He leaves the front of the line and the rest of the line looks up at him, the grief for Olivia hitting him hard.

Elliot hangs up the phone, wondering what could of happened in the night that could cause someone to call him about Olivia. Before he knows it, he's already in his car, racing down the backstreets, finding his way towards Olivia's block. He pulls up to her house, where there's a swarm of people fluttering around her door. The press.

He suddenly puts in together, his mind swirling. Airplane. Crash. James. Pilot. Olivia.

Elliot gets out of the car and heads towards the police, his badge flashing at the press.

"Police, move through!"

He rushes through the crowd, some of the press clearly angry that he's going to enter the house.

He rings the bell with the press ready with their cameras. The door opens, a tall man with dark hair answers, the press blind him with the flashes, where Robert grabs Elliot's arm and slams the door behind him.

"What's happened? Who are you?"

"I'm Robert Shriver, I'm with the-"

Suddenly Robert is interrupted, Olivia pears out a hallway door opening, where she finally sees Elliot. Elliot looks at her. He notices her sunken eyes, her face, how gray she is. She's almost hallow. Empty. He rushes towards her and pulls the empty woman to his chest.

* * *

 _ **Hope you enjoy, leave a review !**_


	3. Cigarettes

_**Don't forget to follow, fav, and leave a review! Enjoy!**_

* * *

Elliot's warmth fills her arms. She was glad she would have someone she could be comfortable with. Elliot releases her and looks back at Robert.

"How can you just let the press be on the doorstep like that?"

Robert looks at him, a bit insulted, defensive even.

"You're a cop aren't you? Tell them some bullshit, show them your badge, that way we can clear the way for investigators."

Elliot rolls his eyes but realizes it would be easier to keep the press of their asses. He walks towards the door and Olivia watches him open it. She is soon assaulted with flashes from every angle. The door closes again and Elliot is outside.

"Any of you step foot onto this staircase again and I will have you removed. All of you, stay on the side walk."

The press aren't happy, but they'd rather get the story then be arrested. Behind him, the door opens and Robert gestures him to come inside.

"That'll keep them off for a while, not too long though." Elliot says, shutting the door behind him.

"Elliot, did you tell..."

Suddenly the phone rings in the kitchen. Olivia looks at Elliot in a desperate way, her pleading eyes screaming help from the pain she's in.

"The squad?" he asks tentatively

He already knows what she means.

"No, but that might be them."

Robert makes it to the phone before Elliot can.

"Hello?" he says

"You're with the one six? How should we know-"

Before Robert can finish his sentence, Elliot grabs the phone from Robert's hand. A clear indicator that Elliot is the more powerful one here.

"Cap?"

"Elliot, I hope you and Olivia have a decent excuse as to why you're asses aren't here?"

Robert takes the phone back from Elliot. Elliot's clearly pissed off that he'd been overpowered.

"Captain Cragen is it? We can't discuss the matters over the phone, it would be better if you would come here"

Robert hangs up the phone and Elliot places his hand on the back of the man's neck, guiding him into the hallway. From what Olivia can see while she sits in the corner of the kitchen is that Robert is a good three inches taller than Elliot. Elliot stands at about 6,1 and Robert, 6,4. And James...6,2. Her mind shakes the memory from her brain. They walk out into the hallway.

"Now what the hell was that for?!" Elliot says, whispering in a harsh tone, clearly trying not to let Olivia hear

"The press, they'll do anything to get info, you should know that, haven't you dealt with ignorant bastards who can't leave you alone?"

Robert is calm, clearly the opposite of Elliot. Robert has seen this type of aggressiveness before. Usually the family member who tends to try and control everything. Elliot was a cop, Olivia's partner. Robert knew he had to keep his cool with him.

"Alright. When they get here, I need him to know, properly, and to make sure Olivia can handle it."

Together, the two men walk back into the kitchen and stare at the fragile woman who sits at the kitchen table.

"Liv, that was Cap. He doesn't know."

Olivia looks up at the two men who stare at her. Oh god. The squad doesn't know. Neither does Julia. Julia. Shit.

Her mind shifts to Julia's presence in the hallway, where all three turn to the little girl who stands in the door way, a mirror image of Olivia, her eyes that belong to her father.

Elliot immediately looks at Olivia, he notices her ghost white complexion, she almost resembles a type of chameleon, someone who wishes she could hide from what she had to face.

Robert moves towards Olivia and she gets up. Olivia moves towards the child with carefulness, she picks her up and places her on a nearby chair.

"Julia. Mommy has something important to say."

The little girl doesn't say a word, but only nods.

"You know Daddy?"

Olivia's throat tightens up, her eyes swelling with tears. The little girl reacts to her mother's face, suddenly looking older with each word.

"He isn't coming home. He's in the sky."

The little girl looks at her mother confused.

"He's flying Mommy!" she says

"No, not like that Julia. He's in the clouds now. Daddy isn't breathing anymore."

Julia suddenly comprehends the news, understanding that death is a thing, even at the age of four. Julia reaches for her mother, whom holds her in her lap, hugging the crying child. Elliot and Robert are left to watch the scene. Olivia, embracing her child, crying with her from the painful loss of a husband, a father. Five minutes later, Julia looks up at Olivia.

"Mommy, I'm going to play with my airplanes upstairs."

Olivia looks at the child in amazement, as if the child hadn't heard that her father just died. She wondered how children could take such a loss and move on so quickly.

"Okay sweetie, just come down if you want anything."

Olivia releases the little girl from her arms, the child walking out the room and back up the stairs. Elliot looks at the woman in front of him. Her hair is in a bun, strands scattered everywhere, her clothes, sweats and a man's shirt. She's falling apart, and he knew Olivia was the best at keeping herself from falling apart. But today, she didn't seem to care.

The doorbell rings and Elliot and Robert guide themselves to the frosted glass.

"It's our Captain."

Robert opens the door and Cragen steps in amidst the flashing press that have moved up the staircase once again.

"What the hell is going on here?" he asks panicky in a serious tone

"It's about that plane that crashed off of Ireland."

Crane's eyes change to a somber look.

"Don't tell me James' was"

Elliot nods and Cragen immediately finds himself looking at Robert.

"Robert Shriver, I'm here with the union. She's in the kitchen."

Cragen walks himself into the kitchen and finds a woman he doesn't recognize.

Olivia sees a familiar figure enter the doorway and she bolts up out of her seat, clearly not wanting to be weak in front of her captain. Crane walks over to her and embraces her into a long embrace.

"I'm sorry" he whispers

Olivia releases from his grasp and the three men find themselves in the kitchen, looking out the window. Olivia, at her kitchen table, fingering a piece of string that had gotten lose on her shirt. She uttered something and the three men turned, staring at her.

"I loved him" she said when she could speak

She felt a powerful tense, as if time were opening her up like a envelope to swallow her , for a day, week, or month, maybe even forever.

"I know" said Robert

Cragen's phone suddenly rang and he walked out of the room, inaudible.

"Did you know my husband?" She says, questioning him

Elliot leans against the window sill, Robert in the middle of the room, leaning against the sink

"No" he said "I'm sorry."

Olivia eyes the cigarette box on the counter. She didn't smoke, but she didn't care at the moment.

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Robert glances at Olivia, who stares at Elliot with a empty expression, and Elliot with a surprised one.

Elliot never knew she smoked, or maybe she didn't. Maybe the stress of the event made her crave one. Robert knew he shouldn't say no, so he handed her the pack, and flicked his lighter on. Olivia, leaning over, inhaling the aroma of tobacco, she exhaled the smoke. Elliot stared at her, shocked at how much a night's worth of news could do to the woman. Elliot felt as if she stared at him in a way where she wanted him to snatch the cigarette from her, to tell her to get her shit together, to stop smoking. But he didn't, this was a situation where he had to be careful with her.

"What else did they tell you about him?" Olivia asks

And that moment, Cragen walks in, the smoke invading his lungs. Surprised, he see's Olivia inhaling the lit cigarette. The box resting under her hand.

"You smoke?" He asks out of turn

Olivia ignores him, as if she's in a trance, only talking to Robert.

"There mine. She wanted one." Robert says, looking at Cragen. He continues his answer to Olivia's question.

"Ten years with American Airlines. Before that, United for three. Before that, Air force for six, before that, Boston college, Holy Name, one wife, a child, a daughter age four."

She nodded.

"Tall" he said. "Six two."

"Good record, an excellent record actually."

"He scratched the back of his head."

"I'm sorry I know all this but didn't know your husband at all."

She looks down.

"Did they tell you anything about me?"

"That you're a decorated svu detective, and that you'd be here with your daughter."

She takes another drag of her cigarette, the smoke blending into the smoggy air of the cold house.

"How many were on board?" she asks, hesitating.

"Three hundred-forty five."

"Any survivors?"

"They're searching."

The phone rang, nobody moving to answer it. Four rings later and the answering machine turns on. James' voice on the receiver, a hint of a Boston accent telling them to leave a message. Olivia looked at the floor and inhaled the smoke. When she looked up again, she had noticed that the three men were studying her.

"It's to keep me from talking to the press isn't it?" She said, looking at Robert with cold eyes "That's why you're here."

Robert didn't answer.

"It's so I don't say anything that leads them to think pilot error", "you don't want them to think pilot error."

Elliot walked over to the phone and took it off it's hook, laying it on the counter.

"We can't have the investigator's stay out there forever Olivia. We need to get this done."

"No. I want the rest of my squad here. I don't want them out of the loop."

Cragen looks at Robert and gets the nod of approval. He walks out of the room again, making a call to the one six.

* * *

Munch answers his phone, tearing his eyes away from the tv, a reporter talking about some plane crash. Fin looks up at Munch, stopping his conversation with Casey and Alex about proceedings for a trial.

He stops, somber in his movement, hanging up the phone. He exhales a deep breath.

"James is dead. His plane was the one in the reports today."

* * *

 **I'm hoping you're all enjoying! I also have this story up on wattpad under svulover4015 as well! Don't forget to review and tell me what you think! There's much more to come and you'll be surprised!**


	4. Fragile

**yet another chapter! enjoy! don't forget to review!**

* * *

They move through the press, Fin shoving one of the cameras out of his way, having the man behind it shoved into the banister of the concrete stairs.

Munch, Fin, Casey, and Alex arrive at the doorstep of the brick red brownstone, their hearts pumping blood, trying to keep reality real. They were about to enter a house of horrors, a house that was once lively, filled with a family, happiness, and now it is filled with emptiness, nothing.

Elliot and Cragen answer the door and the four shuffle in fast, avoiding the press. All four move through the house with a solid presence, as if they were stepping foot onto a cemetery, trying to keep their respect as to not step on graves. Elliot guides them into the kitchen, where Robert is leaning towards Olivia, lighting yet another cigarette for her, and one for himself.

All four are shocked, as they had never seen the woman smoke, let alone look so skeleton like, her features sticking out as if her insides were rotting, as if her heart was gone itself. Cragen, who's behind the group whispers not to ask why.

They don't know if they should approach the woman, before anyone does, Robert turns around and stands up.

"I'm Robert Shriver, I'm with the union."

All four nod and look at him, then back to Olivia who's exhaling smoke.

Casey walks over to Olivia.

"Have you had anything to eat?"

Olivia only nods no. She feels squished as she sits at the table with seven people staring at her.

Munch walks over to the fridge, looking inside.

"Clearly, the woman doesn't have anything in here."

"What about Julia? Has she eat..." Casey stops in her words. She starts up again. "Does she know?"

Olivia nods.

Cragen looks at the squad.

"Let's order in, we shouldn't go out to those vultures again."

"How about Italian? That'll last us a while." Munch says, suggesting in his quirky attitude

Robert looks for approval from Olivia.

"I don't care."

* * *

It's nearly eleven, Casey and Alex are sitting with Olivia at the kitchen table, playing speed to pass time, a cigarette in Olivia's mouth, clenched by her teeth, simultaneously exhaling smoke. Her expression hard and unreadable. Julia's upstairs sleeping. The rest of the squad in the living room, looking at the news reports.

Elliot could hear Robert on the phone in the living room, Olivia too, murmuring with the airlines. She hadn't realizing the television was on, but she sat up in her chair.

"Did they say a bomb?" Olivia asked

Robert doesn't move from his position in the living room.

Her squad turns from their seated positions in the living room and listen attentively to Robert on the phone.

And then Olivia heard the bulletin, the report that would say _"bomb responsible for crash"_ . The word bulletin had come to her mind, the word becoming bullets. Word bullets that tore through her brain and exploded, obliterating memories.

"Robert" Olivia called

He came into the kitchen and stood at the sink, not facing her, nor Elliot who was standing near Olivia, his hand on her shoulder.

"It's not confirmed" he said

"They think a bomb?"

Robert dug through his jacket pocket coat, taking out a small bottle, Elliot cautious. He looks through her cabinet, finding a bottle of brandy.

"It's just a theory, here give her one of these Elliot" Robert says, having Elliot come near him

"What is it?"

"It's valium."

"You carry these? With you?" Elliot whispers, his voice quiet enough to not have Olivia hear.

"Just give it to her, here, it's in the tea, it'll help her sleep, it's what she needs right now."

He handed her the tea, Olivia taking a sip of it, recognizing the brandy taste.

"El, why is there brandy?"

"Take this with it." Elliot says, giving her a valium pill

"What is this?

"Valium" Robert volunteered

"I can't I've had the brandy."

Robert didn't ask how she felt or if she was all right. In Robert's way of thinking, Olivia knew there was no other way of feeling alright. Nothing else would work now. The tears, the shock, the sympathy-all of that could come later.

"Olivia?"

Olivia looks up from her tea cup.

"I'm going to go to the inn-"

"No, stay here. With the rest of us, at least for tonight."

Robert's expression is surprised, surprised Olivia wants him to stay.

"Alright. I just need to get stuff from the inn."

She nods.

Robert puts his jacket onto his broad shoulders, his arms fitting well into it. Before he leaves he stops at the door.

"Olivia? Tomorrow is going to be a harder day, thats when the airlines will be coming, as well as investigators."

"Okay. I'll be ready." Olivia says, her body becoming tired from the valium.

He leaves, the house becoming quiet.

It's quiet and nobody speaks, Olivia walks out into the hallway, Elliot following behind her.

Alex and Casey run back to the living room, then finding Olivia staring at her squad, her face tired from the day's news.

"I'm going to sleep upstairs." she says, her hands shaking with the cup of tea in her hands.

Olivia is off balance, her feet shaken. Casey and Olivia look at her, distraught at the woman, her hair is messy, her eyes blueish and swollen.

"We'll help her shower and get to bed." Alex volunteers, Casey follows suit quickly after

They follow Olivia up the stairs, having to catch her when she trips on a stair.

They move out of hearing distance.

"What the hell did you give her Elliot?" Cragen asks, his hands in his pockets, his eyes concerned

"Valium. Robert gave it to her with some brandy and tea." Elliot responds, scratching his nose and then putting his hands in his pockets

"Way to go, Robert's channeling his inner pedophile, drugging women." Munch says

"Shut up Munch." Fin says, rolling his eyes

"Never mind that, now did Robert say it was a bomb?" Cragen asked

"It's only a guess." Elliot responds

"Elliot. I need you to tell me something." Cragen says, looking at Elliot's moving eyes

"Besides her official piece, do you know where she keeps her home piece?"

Elliot already wants to jump to defend his partner, to keep Cap from disowning her, from making her step down, taking her gun away. In a situation like this, the commanding officer must take the officer's piece away from them, hoping their own brother won't have to eat his own gun.

"Now Elliot, the woman's husband just died, I just want to be cautious."

Elliot relaxes, understanding that it's important that Olivia is safe.

"Both her pieces are in a safe that's in the closet near the front door, there's one in her room too. All in safes. Try 1939 for the code. I'll get the one upstairs after she falls asleep."

Cragen wishes she'll never resort to her own gun, even after an event like this.

* * *

Upstairs Casey and Alex lead Olivia to her bedroom, opening the door they find a light blue room, wooden framed windows facing the street. Olivia had the first two floors to herself, and the other two belonged to Margaret. Alex held her arms while Casey drew the shower, making sure it wasn't too hot. Olivia walked with Alex, frozen in time, her mind not in the present, quiet. Alex guided her to the bathroom and Casey gathered a robe for her. The silk purple one, the one James had given her.

Alex and Casey left Olivia in the bathroom, waiting on the bed for her, looking at each other. They didn't hear movement after ten minutes and Alex decided to check in on her.

"Olivia!"

Olivia turned, looking at Alex then back at the water, where she'd been standing for ten minutes, just staring at it.

"Olivia? Can you get in the shower?" Casey asked

The woman didn't answer her.

Alex looked at Casey. Alex gestured Casey outside the bathroom door, leaving Olivia to her thoughts.

"You know she's in shock, we have to help her."

"You mean get in with her?"

"If we have to."

Casey looks back at Olivia but knows she has to help the fragile woman.

Casey takes off her pantsuit jacket, including her blouse, leaving her camisole. Alex leaves on her blouse. They walk back into the bathroom.

"Olivia, step into the shower." Alex says

As Olivia steps into the shower, Casey guides her into it, her hair and camisole immediately getting soaked. Alex takes off her silk robe before she steps in, leaving her naked. Olivia looks straight ahead, at the white tile. Thoughts going no where. Casey starts to feel the woman lean against her chest, her shoulders moving, followed by wrenching sounds from Olivia. Alex watches the two, Olivia sobbing on Casey while Alex uses a towel to wipe Olivia's face of tears. The water runs down her thin frame, moving in and out of the surface of each crevice, feeling the movement of her lungs, desperate to inhale the air that seems to have so little available.

Alex washes the rest of the conditioner from Olivia's hair. Casey holds onto the naked woman, her body light and fragile. Alex stops the shower, and Casey takes the woman's hand, guiding her out of the shower, she wraps Olivia in a towel, tying it at her back. Olivia is between the two woman, Casey at her back, drying her hair, and Alex, wiping the black smears of makeup off her face. They guide Olivia to her bed, putting her under the covers, they leave the room, drenched in water, they close the door and walk down the stairs.

The two walk into the living room where Elliot, Fin, Cragen and Munch turn, looking at the drenched women.

"What happened?" Munch asks

"We had to help Olivia take a shower, whatever the hell you gave the woman knocked her out." Alex says sharply

"It's just shock Alex." Casey responds

* * *

Olivia wakes up. Her head spinning, as if she's reliving the moment she felt that something had happened to James. She hears movement downstairs, her hands frigid, her feet hitting the cold floor again. She tightens the silk robe against herself, nothing underneath but just cold skin. Olivia walks down the stairs, the wooden boards creaking underneath her, threatening to break. It was not yet seven o clock, how long had she slept? Eight hours? She could only remember Casey and Alex drenched in water, leaving her in her bed. She was cold.

She noticed the living room empty, except for the figures of the two men, rough in posture, angry with the atmosphere set by the day's events. Elliot was next to Robert, looking at something, clearly oblivious to the woman who was behind them. Her squad must of gone home, they needed to man the one six after all. They'd probably be back. They always were, it was part of the grieving process. People came over. They brought casseroles. Food. Meals. Comfort gifts.

She walked into the kitchen, crossing her arms and leaning against the lip of the window sill, looking out the window. A few press people still waiting outside, waiting for the next best hing to happen so they could get their story. Even if it was true or false. It had been a long day, a terrible day, a day so long and so terrible, it had hors ago passed out of any reality Olivia had ever known. She had this distinct feeling she'd never be able to sleep again, that when she'd woken early that morning she had emerged from a state of being that could never be reentered.

She sat at the kitchen table, tea in her hand now, her head resting in on her arm that laid on the table. Somehow she lulled herself to sleep.

* * *

She woke up to hearing a heavy tread on the stairs outside. A man's tread. For a moment she thought it was James coming home, but it couldn't be him, it couldn't be. She squinted at the clock numbers on the microwave.

6:30am.

Elliot comes into the kitchen, taking a pot from the cabinet and an egg from the fridge.

"I'll make you an egg."

The door opens and Robert comes in with Casey and Alex trailing behind him. He has a giant stack of newspapers in his hands.

"What's this?" Elliot asks, Olivia looking at Robert

Robert throws a copy of The New York Times on the kitchen table.

"What the hell has the press done? We don't even have the full story and they're making up this crap?!"

She looks down at the newspaper, the front cover, the airplane before it last hit air, and then a photo of James' passport photo and Olivia's. On the side of the airplane photo sat a photo that looked familiar to a moment from yesterday. Elliot was hugging Olivia in the doorway of her house. The title made the moment feel volatile.

 _A NYPD cop's affair, is this the reason why the pilot took his plane down?_

Olivia stands up, smashing the back of her kitchen chair against the wall. She takes the paper out of fury, her hand s crumpling the paper. She rushes towards the front door, prepared to face the press head on. Robert runs to the door, slamming it shut as soon as Olivia opens it.

"Robert, get the fuck out of my way." Olivia says out of breath

"You're going to let them slaughter my husband like this? To say it was suicide?! To say I'm having an affair?!

"No. But I won't have you make this worse for yourself. I need Elliot. Now. I'll tell them off, and you'll be okay. Wait here."

"Elliot, get over here"

Both of them exit out the door, Olivia watching from the kitchen window now. The press are ready to record and capture whatever they can.

Robert looks at them calmly, meanwhile Elliot is fuming.

"All of you need to get you're facts straight. This man from this paper is her partner in the NYPD special victims unit, and regarding the plane, we have not determined the cause of the explosion. Now stay out of this, and any of you taking photos of a cop again, I'll have you removed from the premises and you're job taken out from under you."

* * *

 **I would really enjoy reviews! :)**


	5. Suffering

**_Yet another chapter! Anyways, I'm going to take this story slow, so don't expect this story to be done in a week. It will take time! But it will be_ _great_ _!_**

 ** _Tell me what you think!_**

* * *

Robert and Elliot come back inside, slamming the door behind them.

"Would you calm down Robert, this is only a title, it'll go away."

Olivia doesn't seem to understand that this isn't a case, this is world wide news, splattering every tv station possible.

"Olivia, this isn't a case where we can put it away and it'll disappear within a few days, this is a worldwide story, people are going to be going crazy, the NYPD could be looking at you for investigation besides the airlines." Robert says quickly, his voice trailing off, leaving Olivia to look at the paper

She looked at Elliot, his tie was gone, the cuffs of his shirt rolled, the top button of his shirt open. It looked like he hadn't slept at all. Robert didn't either.

"I just got back from the newsstand and saw it, I stayed the night in the living room, Elliot did too. Robert gathered a cup of coffee together and handed one to Olivia, then Elliot. While starting up another pot to make he stopped in his tracks.

"I thought you should know" Robert said "They're saying mechanical failure."

"Who's saying mechanical failure?"

"London."

"They know?" she asked, thinking why London would know

London was one of James' main ports to go to, he usually had to go through London, and he'd spend a few days there before he had to fly back to the United States.

"No. It's just bullshit at this point. They're guessing. They've found a piece of the fuselage and an engine."

"Oh" she said

Olivia combed her hair with her fingers, it was her own nervous habit. A piece of the fuselage she thought. She repeated the phrase in the mind. She tried to see the piece of the fuselage, to imagine what it might be. Elliot looked at Olivia, watching her dark brown hair falling to pieces around her shoulders. She didn't seem as if she was the wife of man who had jus died, she seemed sturdy, almost cold-hearted.

"The cabin. About twenty feet."

"Any...?"

Before she could say bodies, Elliot put his hand on her arm, trying to comfort her.

"No. You haven't eaten all day have you?"

"It's alright."

"No. It's not alright.

She looked over at the table, which was covered with dishes of food, tupperware containers, casseroles, pasta, cakes, salads. It would take a large family to eat all this.

"It's what people do." Olivia said "They don't know what else to do, so they bring food."

Throughout the day yesterday, a period of policemen had walked the staircase, bringing yet another offering. She was used to this, seeing victim's family's bombarded with food, gifts, sorrow. But it amazed her how the way the body kept moving forward, past the shock and the grief, past the retching and hollowness inside, and kept wanting, sustenance, kept wanting to be fed. It seemed unsuitable, like wanting sex.

"We should have sent it back, to the police and press, it'll just go to waste here."

"Never feed the press" Elliot says

"They're hungry to to be let inside house." Robert says, continuing

Olivia smiled, and it shocked her, that she could smile. Her face hurt, the dryness and the salt of the crying. She suddenly remembered that Julia was upstairs.

"Did Julia eat?"

Elliot looks at her, before trying to reassure her.

"Margaret, the woman upstairs took her to her place, she said she'd take care of her while this blows over, she figured you were trapped by all the investigations."

"I'm going to go see how she is."

"Olivia, the airlines are coming in an hour."

"I'll be down by then."

Then Olivia walked to the front door. Next to the front door was another door, one that was frosted glass, a french door type of design. In fact, it just led to Margaret's section of the house. There was a front door part to Margaret's side, but with the press out there, this side door made her appreciate the architecture of the house.

She walked through the door and came to the stair case that led to the third and fourth floors of the house. The small room near the staircase was a sitting room. Olivia loved the way Margaret furnished the house, she loved how she left it simple and elegant, nothing strewn around the floor or the walls.

"Margaret?" she called up the stairs

No answer.

She walked up the stairs, and found Julia and Margaret asleep on the couch, she wanted to lie down with the woman who resembled her mother physically, but her formerly blonde hair turned to an ashy silver, her face and cheeks sunken in. She walked back down stairs, walking over to the living room.

On the table next to one of the leather chairs was a photograph from another era. In the picture, Margaret had on a narrow, dark skirt that fell to the knees, a white blouse, and a short cardigan sweater. There were pearls at her throat. She was long waisted and thin, and her glossy blonde hair was parted to one side. Her features were strong, what people meant when they said a handsome woman. In the photograph, Margaret was sitting on a sofa, leaning forward to reach for something out of the frame. In her other hand she was holding a cigarette in the sort of pose that had once made cigarette smoking seductive, the cigarette held casually in slender fingers, the smoke curling around the throat and chin. The woman in the photograph perhaps twenty years old. Now Margaret was seventy two and wore baggy jeans that were always slightly too short, loose sweaters that attempted to camouflage a prominent stomach. There was no longer any trace of the young woman with glossy hair and a slender waist in the woman with the thinning silver hair who was now with Julia.

She returns to her section of the house, walking up the stairs, her hands at her waist. Elliot hears her go up the stairs, following her, making sure she's okay. She walks into her room, walking into the closet on her side of the bed. Elliot knocks on the door frame of her room.

"May I come in?" he asks smiling a bit

Olivia turns around as she turns the light on in the closet

"Yeah."

"You alright?" he asks, trying to tread lightly

"You know I've been asked that so many times already, I don't know what it means anymore."

"Right" Elliot says

Olivia looks through her closet to change, she finds a pair of blue jeans and a loose fitted white dress shirt. Her body is so tired that she doesn't care if Elliot sees her. She moves out of the closet, closing the door behind her and looking at Elliot.

She looks at herself in the mirror, then pulling off her silk robe, leaving nothing but skin. Elliot's never seen her like this, to allow herself to be exposed so vulnerably, not to protect herself with the lively attitude of who Olivia Benson is. From his angle, he can only see Olivia's back, including her backside, leading down to her bare legs that hold the woman up. The legs that keep her going throughout the day, that move the strong woman through the day despite the struggles she's lived through.

She takes a pair of undergarments from the dresser next to her and puts them on. Olivia looks back at Elliot who sees she's clearly struggling with the clasp at her back.

"El...?"

Elliot already knows, he gets up and finds himself behind her in the mirror, Olivia looking at him through the mirror. Her body is thin, almost boney. Her face sunken. Elliot clasps the her bra and feels his hands on her back, her skin looks at the two of them in the mirror, her head looking downwards at her feet.

He walks back to her bed, sitting down. She dresses and finds herself asking him about Kathy.

"How is Kathy?"

Elliot sighs, knowing she wants to move on from the intimate moment they just had, even if it was just him trying to help.

"You know with the new house at the beach and the kids going back and forth, she's genuinely happy. She's truly happier now that I signed the divorce papers."

"And you?" Olivia asks

"I don't know." Elliot says, running his hands over his face

"What about you, tell me, truly." Elliot asks

"I feel as if I've temporarily lost James and that I'm trying to find him.

"You're not going to find him" Elliot said "He's gone."

"I know, I know."

"He didn't suffer" Elliot said, looking at her standing above him

"We don't know that." Olivia says, turning away from him

"Robert is pretty sure of it."

"That's what he says to all the families" Olivia says "No one knows anything for sure, it's all rumor and speculation."

"You should get out of here Olivia" Elliot says "It's a madhouse at your stairs. I don't want to frighten you, but they've had to bring out some uni's to guard your door."

Behind Olivia, a cold slice of air entered through the window. She breathed in deeply. She hadn't been outside all day except into the back yard to take a pair of pants off the clothes line.

"I don't know how long this will take to die down." Elliot says

"Robert says it may take a while." Olivia responds, her hands at her hips

She inhaled deeply. It was like breathing in death, the way it sharpened the senses, to alert the body it was failing itself.

"I loved him." she said

"I know. I know. We all loved him."

"Why did this happen?"

"Forget the why" Elliot said "There is no why, it doesn't matter, it doesn't help, it's done, and it can't be undone."

"I'm..."

You're exhausted. Go to bed."

"I'm fine."

"That's you're favorite phrase."

Olivia's eyes were swollen and ached from crying. Her head felt heavy. She'd blown her nose so much that the skin between her lips and nose stung. She'd had a headache since early morning and had been swallowing aspirin without counting. She imagined her blood thinning out, pouring out her.

 _There will be many days like this_. Robert had said. Not quite as bad, but bad. She could not imagine living through yet another day that she had just lived through. She could not remember the sequence of things. What had happened in the morning or afternoon. There were bulletins on the tv, words that made her stomach turn.

 _Downed after taking off...baby clothes...ninety seconds for the wreckage...shock and grief on both sides of the...the continuing story of American Airlines flight 270...FAA maintenance inspection...speculation that a massive..._

And then there were the images that Olivia doubted would ever leave her. Her NYPD photo plastered over the news, a vast plain of ocean with helicopters hovering over, men in diving gear, water smashing against the cliffs, relatives at the airport, and then immediately after the footage of the relatives, three still photographs of three men, all in formal poses. Olivia had never seen that particular photo of James. She could not imagine for what purpose the photo would be taken. Not just in case? But whenever else did a pilot's face appear on the news?

All day Elliot and Robert had told her not to watch. The pictures would stay with her, they warned her about that. It was bette not to have seen them, as they would come back in her mind, her daydreams.

 _It was unimaginable,_ Elliot had said.

Meaning. Don't imagine it.

But how could she not? How could she stop the flow of detail, the flow of words and photographs in her mind. Throughout the day, the phone had rung continuously. Mostly often Robert had answered the phone, but sometimes when they were watching the bulletins, he let it ring. and she heard the voices on the answering machine. Tentative, inquiring voices from news organizations. The voices of friends and neighbors, calling about how terrible it was. _"I can't believe it...I'm sorry..."_

A voice from a woman who sounded edgy, professional. She knew the union didn't want it to be pilot error. She had already heard there were lawyers scavenging. She wondered if a lawyer had tried to contact her, if Robert had cut him off. The divers she knew, were searching for the flight data recorder and the CVR, the box with the last words. She was afraid of the diver's finding the latter. It was the one news bulletin she knew she wouldn't be able to bear-hearing James' voice, the authority in it, the control, then what? It seemed ghoulishly intrusive to record the last seconds of a man. Where else but on death row did they do that?

Elliot leaves the room, leaving her to her thoughts. She looks up at the closet door. On the back of the closet door, Jame's jeans were on a hook. He would of worn them when he came home. She takes in his scent, breathing through the denim. She took them off the hook and placed them on the bed. She heard change in the pockets. She reached into one of the back pockets and found a wad of papers, slightly bent, compacted from being sat on. There were receipts from a sandwich shop in London, one for a package of lightbulbs, and one for a few groceries. Then a receipt from the post office that read for a thirty two dollar purchase. Stamps she guessed. Two lottery tickets. Lottery tickets? She hadn't known that James played the lottery. She looked at one of the tickets more closely. On the bottom corner there was a note scribbled _M at A's, i_ t read. There were numbers followed by it. Margaret at someone's? Melinda? Another lottery pick? Olivia then unfolded the papers again, finding two lined papers, on the first, several lines looked like a poem, written in ink. James' hand writing.

 _Who have sought more than is in rain or dew_

 _Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,_

 _Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,_

 _Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips;_

 _And wage God's battles in the long gray ships._

 _The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,_

 _To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;_

 _God's bell has claimed them by the little cry_

Puzzled, she leaned against her dresser. What poem was this and what did it mean? Why had James' written it down? She looked at the second piece of lined papers. It was a grocery list. She read them on the list: _extension cord, color ink printer, Bergdorf fedex robe to arrive 20th._

Bergdorf? The New York department store? She tried to remember the the December calendar, James' would have been home on the twentieth. Was this a reference to her anniversary present? She gathered the papers in her hand, clutching them tightly. She leaned her back against the dresser and slid down to it's length. Her exhaustion was bone deep. She could barely hold up her head.

* * *

 **I hope you guys enjoyed this! I just got my own macbook and can write whenever I'm free.**

 ** _I would appreciate a review,_ maybe tell me _what you think is going to happen_? I want to see what you guys think will happen. **


	6. Error

**Hi guys, I've realized I made a huge mistake and one of my reviewers pointed it out, so time is a bit off, Ive mixed up the beginning of the story on July 4th and somehow moving into December. I have gone back and fixed everything. So I'll clear things up : All of this story right now is in July. If you were to look back there is no mention of Christmas, winter, or snow, and the receipt she found for the robe is a reference to her anniversary present . If there still mistakes, point it out to me.**

* * *

"I wish you would eat something." Elliot said

Across the table, Robert was finishing up a bowl of spaghetti that one of her neighbors had left

"I can't." Olivia said "You were hungry," she said to Robert, studying his empty bowl

He nudged the bowl to the side.

Elliot turns from the stove, a pot of tea in his right hand a cup in the other. He offers it to Olivia.

Earlier she had tried to make an effort of eating a piece of bread with tomato soup, but her throat had refused to swallow it. She had clean clothes on, the ones she had put on in front of Elliot. Her eyes and nose swollen, she'd figured that she'd cried more on the bathroom floor than at any other time in her life. Possibly her life. She felt drained. Emptied. Simply from crying.

"I'm sorry." Robert said

"For what?"

"All of it."

She looks down.

"You're job is unimaginable" Olivia asks "How do you do it?"

Robert looks at her droopy eyes.

"Me? Look at what you do. How do you go around each day, looking at bodies, having to hear gruesome stories, to be around sick perverts all day. All I am is the grim reaper. I tell them they're family member is dead, then I just help them."

She looks down.

He takes out a cigarette and lights up.

"Want one?"

"Sure." She says, taking his lighter and putting the flame to the cigarette

She inhales the fumes.

Elliot looks at her, angry with the way she's abusing her body.

James had hated smokers, he couldn't tolerate being a room with one. She knew he'd be furious with her if he saw her smoking.

"Why do you do it?" She asks, referring to his career choice

"I suppose I'm drawn to moments of intensity." Robert says "In the human experience."

"And you?" he asks, keeping his cigarette between his lips

She's silent. Aware for the first time that there's music in the background. Ralph McTell, Streets of London.

"That's a story for later."

"Do they? Mend?" Robert asks

She realizes he's acting about the victims

"Given enough time, the women usually do. Unfortunately..."

"I'm sorry."

"...the children don't heal as well." Elliot fills in

Robert only nods

"They always say children are resilient. They mutate with disaster and make accommodations. I hardly ever see grief stricken men, not a lot are assaulted. And when I do see men, they're fathers, furious that their wife or daughter could be hurt like that." Olivia says, continuing

"I'll bet they're angry." Robert says

"What happens if you've told the family, the news says it's true, but then it's eventually false?"

"That doesn't happen" Robert says strongly

"Why not?"

"I spend a lot of time outside the driveways on a cellphone, making sure to get total confirmation before I tell anyone. You may find this hard, but I never want to tell a woman her husband has died if in fact he has not."

"Do you mind these questions?" Olivia asks while cigarette smoke curls around her throat

"No, but I'm concerned on why you're asking, but no I don't mind."

"Then let me ask you this, what are you afraid I'll say to the press?"

Robert loosed his tie, unbuttoning the top pat of his shirt.

"A pilot's wife is naturally very distraught. If she says something and the press is there to hear it, it goes on the record. A new widow, for example, might say that her husband had been complaining about the mechanics recently. Or she might blow out, I knew this would happen. He said the airline was cutting corners on crew training."

"Well wouldn't that be ok, it it was true?"

"People say things when they're distraught they wouldn't say later. Things they sometimes don't mean at all. But if it becomes a part of the record, there's no backing away from it."

"What do you do when you're waiting or a crash?" Olivia asks

"It's not like that, I study crash investigations very closely, following up on pilot's families. How old is this house?"

"You're changing the subject."

"Yes, I am."

"1920."

"It's beautiful."

"You've been here four years?"

"Almost five."

"The phone rang then and startled them both. It seemed that it had been twenty minutes, perhaps thirty, since the phone had last rung, the longest break since the first summons in the morning. Elliot reached for the phone, handing it to Robert. She watched Robert answer it.

Olivia watched Robert at the phone. He turned once quickly and glanced at her, then turned back again.

"No comment." he said

"I don't think so."

"No comment."

"No comment."

He hung up the phone and stood looking up at the cabinet above it. He picked up a pen from the counter and began to flip it back and forth, hitting his knuckles.

"What?" Olivia asked

He turned, facing both Olivia and Elliot

"Well, we knew this was going to happen." He said

"What?"

"This will have a shelf life of twenty four hours max. Then it will be history."

"What?"

He looked at her hard and took a deep breath.

"They're saying pilot error."

Olivia shut her eyes. Her lit cigarette resting between her middle finger and index finger.

"It's just speculation." he said "They think they've found some flight data that doesn't make sense. But trust me, they couldn't know for sure."

"Oh."

"Also," he said quietly "They've found some bodies."

Olivia thought that if she kept breathing in and out slowly, that she would be alright.

"No identification yet."

"How many?"

"Eight."

She tried to imagine. Eight? Whole? Pieces? She wanted to ask but didn't.

"There'll be more." he said "They're bringing up more."

"Who was it on the phone?"

"Reuters."

Olivia threw her cigarette into the ash tray, Robert taking and grinding it down. She got up from the table and walked through the hallway and into the bathroom. For a moment, she was afraid she might be sick. It was a reflexive reaction, she thought, the inability to take it in, the desire to cough it out. She splashed water on her face and dried it. In the mirror, her face was almost unrecognizable.

There was a knock on the door and she knew it would be Elliot to follow her.

"Elliot..."

"Before you tell me off just tell me if you're okay."

She appreciates the man's pleading, and opens the door.

He's standing in front of the door, at least two feet away from her. She looks at him with his soft eyes, looking at her. She reaches for him into a hug. His arms wrap around her, his hand rubbing her bag.

"Thank you." she says quietly

When they returned to the kitchen, Robert was on the telephone again. He had one arm across his chest, his hand tucked under the other arm. He was speaking quietly, answering yes and ok, watching her as she walking into the room.

"Later" he said and hung up

There was a long silence. Then a doorbell rang, she assumed the men from the company, or the investigators.

Robert approached the hallway, opening the front door. A series of flashes, and then a slammed door. Treads of several feet, more than one man, she thought. Elliot looked at her, her eyes worried.

"It'll be ok." he said, rubbing her back

Two men in black suits, taller than Robert, at least six five for the both of them, they're faces serious, turn around the kitchen door and approach Olivia.

"Olivia O'Connell?" one of the men said

"Benson."

"We're investigating, on behalf of the airlines."

"I'm sorry for you're loss and I'm sure that you'd like us to be out of you're hair, but we must do proper procedure." the other man says

"Let's just get it over with." Olivia says

It takes a half hour of constant questioning and awkward silences to give her the courage to ask.

"How many of them are pilot error?" Olivia asked

"Seventy percent." one of the men said

"What error? What happened?"

"It's a series of events leading to the last one, and the last one is usually called pilot error because by that time the pilots are deeply involved."

"I see."

"May I ask you something?"

"Yes" Olivia says

He hesitated.

"Was James...?"

"Was James what?" she asked

"Was James agitated or depressed?"

The man across from her paused

"I know it's an awful question" he said "But you're going to have to answer it sooner or later. If there was something, if there's anything you know or you can remember, it would be better if you and I talked about it first."

She considered the question, odd, she thought, how intensely you knew a person, or thought you did, when you were in love, soaked, drenched, in love-only to discover later that perhaps you didn't know that person quite as well known as you had hoped to be. In the beginning, a lover drank in every word, every gesture, and then tried to hold onto that intensity for as long as possible. It was the way people worked, Olivia thought, with a need to evolve from being sick with love to making a life with someone who was also changing, altering himself so that the couple could one day raise a child.

Olivia knew some lovers didn't make it, as she was lonely for years until James stumbled into her life. She finally felt as if she could count on someone, as for example her mother didn't have someone. Her mothers fate had made her a rape victim, impregnated, left to deal with it for life, to have Olivia be the reminder of what happened. And when Serena did bring home men, she would beg them to tell her she was beautiful, which caused Olivia to be stubborn, to protect herself from what the future of her mothers alcoholic binge would bring. With for her own young loves, she had gotten serious with one of Serena's colleagues, a professor at Hudson. Her love for the man was intense, and she eventually planed on running away, but when her mother found out, she was given a beatdown, words that she couldn't repeat in her head.

As for her relationship with James, the intensity was strong the first year and then James had started to withdraw ever so slightly from Olivia. Nothing she could point out or articulate exactly. In every marriage, she had always thought, a couple created it's own sexual drama, played out in the bedroom or silently in public or even over the telephone, a drama that was often repeated with similar dialogue, similar stage directions, similar body parts as props to the imagination. But if one partner then slightly altered his role or tried to eliminate some of his lines, the play didn't track quite as well as it once had. The other actor, not yet aware that the play had changed, sometimes lost his lines or swallowed them or became confused by the different choreogrpahy.

And so it had been, she thought, with James and her. He had begun to turn less often to her in bed. And then, when he did, it seemed as though an edge was gone. It was just a gradual sliding away, so gradual as to sometimes be almost undetectable, until one day it occurred to Olivia that she and James hadn't made love in over two weeks. She'd thought at the time that it was his need for sleep that had overwhelmed him, his schedule was difficult, and he often seemed tired. But sometimes she worried that possibly she was responsible for this new pattern, that she had become too passive. Too caught up in her job, in fact married to the job. And so she had tried for time to time to be more imaginative and playful, an effort that wasn't entirely successful.

Olivia had vowed not to complain, she wouldn't not panic, she would not even discuss the matter. Olivia soon realized that there was a gauze, wrapped around her, a veil that kept her and James beyond easy reach of each other. And after a while, the gauze began to make her anxious.

And then there had been the fight, the one truly terrible fight of their marriage. But she wouldn't think about that now.

"There wasn't anything" she said "I think I'll go up to bed."

Robert nodded, agreeing with the idea

"It was a good marriage." Olivia said

She ran her palm over the table

"It was good." she repeated

But actually she thought any marriage was like radio reception, it came and went. Occasionally, it, the marriage, James, would be clear to her. At other times, there would be interference, a staticky sound between them. At hose times, it would be as though she could't quite hear James, as though his messages to her were drifting in the wrong direction through the stratosphere. Before she could leave her chair, Robert popped a question.

"Do we need to notify any others members of his family?"

Olivia shook her head

"He was an only child, his mother died when he was nine." she said, "And his father died when he was in college."

She wondering if Robert already knew this.

"James never talked about his childhood" she said "Actually, I don't know much about his childhood at all. I always had the impression it wasn't a very happy one."

James' childhood has been one of those subjects Olivia had thought there was all the time in the world to talk to him about.

"Seriously, I'd be happy to stay here." Robert said

"No it's okay, I have Margaret and Elliot here if I need someone."

She paused. She watched Elliot guide the two men out the door and into the frenzy of press. Elliot returned and leaning against the doorway.

"When you asked me about James" she asked "about being depressed?"

"Yes?" Robert replied

"Well, there was one time I would say he was not depressed exactly, but definitely unhappy."

"Tell me about it." Robert said

"It was about his job." she said

"This was about three years ago, he became bored with the airline. He began to fantasize about quitting, maybe start his own business, a charter school, maybe sell a few airplanes."

"I used to think about that too." Robert said.

"The company grew too big, too impersonal, a lot of the pilots weren't American, they lived in London. For a while we got a few brochures for an Alaskan airline, a small plane company, doing research and tours all over Alaska, they offered James a job, and he even asked if I was willing to go with him, and I wanted to make him happy, as I had said yes. I was relieved when the subject went off course, and he didn't speak about leaving the airline anymore.

"After that, did he seem depressed?"

"No, not really."

She thought it would be impossible to say with any certainty what accommodations James had made inside himself. He had seemed to put his discontent into the same place he had put his childhood, a sealed vault.

"You looked tired" she said to Robert

"I am."

"You probably should go now." Olivia says

He was silent, getting up from his chair, nodding at the Elliot then Olivia.

"We have to have a funeral don't we?" Olivia asks

"We can talk about that tomorrow." Robert says

"But what if there's no body?"

"What religion are you?" Robert asked

"I'm nothing."

"What was James?"

"Catholic. But he was nothing too. We didn't belong to a church. We weren't married in a church."

She felt Robert's fingers touch the top of her hair. Lightly. Quickly.

"I'm going now." he said "I'll be back in the morning."

He left out the front door and left Olivia and Elliot in the kitchen.

"I trusted him not to die." Olivia said "I feel I've been cheated. Does that sound terrible? After all, he died, and I didn't. He may have suffered. I know he suffered, if only for seconds."

"You're suffering now." Elliot says, putting his hands on her shoulders

"It's not the same."

"You have been cheated." he said "Both you and your daughter."

At the mention of her daughter, Olivia's throat tightened. She put her hands in front of her face, as if to tell him not to say anything else.

"You have to let this happen to you." he said quietly "It has it's own momentum."

"It's like a train rolling over me. A train that doesn't stop."

" I want to help you but there isn't a lot I can do except watch. Grief is messy, there's nothing good about it."

He sits down next to her, having her lean against his chest, feeling his heart beat.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter, please review!**


	7. Falling

**Enjoy. Leave comments or a review.**

* * *

It had been a few hours since she had last been questioned by the investigators and airlines. Elliot had held her for hours after, just letting her listen to his heart beat.

She had moved upstairs, asking to be alone. She was inside her bedroom, the clock hitting five pm. She wondered what was meant precisely by pilot error. A left turn when a right turn was called for? A miscalculation of fuel? Directions not followed? A switch accidentally flipped? IN what other job could a man make a mistake and kill 344 other people? A train engineer? Someone who worked with chemicals? With nuclear waste?

It couldn't be pilot error, she thought. For Julia's sake, it couldn't.

It was cold in the bedroom. The door had been shut all day. The bed was unmade, just as se had left it at 3:30am in the morning the day she had been told James had died. The circled the bed and looked at it, the way an animal might do, wary and considering, She pulled back the comforter and top sheet and studied the fitted sheet. How many times had James and her made love on that bed? she wondered. She touched the sheet with her fingers, her hand dragging over the wrinkles. She sat on the edge of the bed, seeing if she could stand that. She no longer trusted herself, could no longer say with any certainty how her body would react to any piece of news. But she sat there, she felt nothing. Perhaps, during the long day, she had finally become numb, she thought. The senses could only bear so much.

"Pilot error" she said aloud to herself

But it couldn't be pilot error, she thought quickly. It would not, in the end, be pilot error. She lay down on the bed, fully clothed. This would be her bed now, she was thinking. Her bed alone. All that room for only herself. She glanced over at the bedside clock 5:20.

Carefully monitoring herself for seismic shift-reached down and pulled the top sheet over her. She imagined she could smell James in the sheets. It was possible-she hadn't washed the sheets since he left. But she couldn't trust her senses, didn't know what was real or imagined. She looked over at James' shirt flung over the chair. Olivia had gotten into the habit, earlier in the marriage, of not bothering to tidy the house just until James got home from a trip. Now she knew, she would not want to remove the shirt from the chair. It might be days before she could touch it, could risk bringing it to her face, risk catching his smell in the weave of the cloth, and when all the traces of James had been cleaned and put away, what would she be left with then?

She brought the the flannel up over her mouth and nose and breathed slowly through it, thinking that might help to stop the panic. She got up quickly from the bed and walked into the bathroom, her tired eyes looking back at her. Her feet then took her outside her bedroom, and past James' office. She saw that the light had been left on. The office was over bright and colorless, white, metallic, plastic, grey. It was a room she seldom entered, an unappealing space with no curtains on the windows and metal file cabinets lining the walls. A masculine room.

She supposed it had its own order, an order only know to James. On the massive metal desk there were two computers, a keyboard, a fax, two phones, a scanner, coffee cups, dusty models of planes, a mug with red juice in it, Julia's she guessed, and a blue clay pencil that Julia had made in the beginning of kindergarten year. She looked at James' fax machine with its blinking light. She walked to the desk and sat down. Robert had been here, earlier. Using the phone and the fax. Olivia opened the left hand drawer. Inside were James' logbooks, heavy, dark ones with vinyl bindings and smaller ones that fit into a shirt pocket. She saw a small flashlight, an ivory letter opener, he had brought a few years ago from Africa. There were handbooks for airplane types he no longer flew, a book on weather radar. A training video on wind shear. Coasters that looked like flight instruments.

She closed the drawer and then opened up the middle drawer. She picked up tortoise shell reading glasses that James had run over with the car, he insisted they still worked. There were boxes of paperclips, pens, pencils, elastic bands, thumbtacks, two batteries, a spark plug. She opened a larger file on the right. It was intended for legal size files, it was a stack of papers about a foot high. She found several of James' bank statements. She and Jack had had separate accounts. She paid for clothes for herself and Julia, for food and other household items. James had paid for anything else. Any money James saved, he had said, was going toward their retirement.

Olivia was beginning to have trouble keeping her eyes open. She looked down at the open drawer. In the drawer, slightly stuck in the seam, was an unopened envelope, junk mail, yet another invitation to apply for a visa. Bay Bank. 9.9 percent. This was old she thought.

She picked up the envelope and was about to toss it into the wastebasket when she saw writing on the back. Call pharmacy, call Alex, bank deposit, June expenses, taxes. She turned it to the other side and it was a note, in James' handwriting.

 _Muire 3:30,_ it read.

Who was Muire? Olivia wondered. Was it Ed Muir from the bank? Had James' been negotiating a loan?

Olivia looked again at the front of the envelope. She checked the postmark. Definitely four years ago she thought. She put the stacks of paper back into the drawer and shoved the drawer closed with her foot. She was now going to lie down, she left James' office and walked into the spare bedroom, her retreat. It was decorated with a pastel green, the bed in the corner was made already, it hadn't been slept in for a few months. She lay back against the flowered comforter and within seconds she fell asleep.

In the morning, she heard a dog barking. There was something familiar about the dog barking. And then she braced herself, the way she might do if she were stopped at a light and happened to look up in the rear view mirror to see that the driver behind her was going too fast.

She walked down the stairs and found Robert to be the only one in the house. He sat at the kitchen table, his usual spot. She could see the comb lines in his hair, he had on a different shirt, a blue one, that was almost a denim, with a dark red tie. Second day shirt, she thought.

A coffee cup was on the counter. He had his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and he was pacing. She looked up at the clock, 9:00 am. When he saw her at the kitchen doorway, he took his hands out of his pocket and walked towards her. He put his hands on her shoulders.

"What?" she asked, alarmed.

"Do you know what the CVR is?" he asked

"Yes" she said. "The cockpit voice recorder."

"Well, they've found it."

"And?"

He hesitated. Just a beat.

"They're saying suicide."

* * *

He walks with his arm around her toward the planes, which seem too small, only toys that children might climb in. The heat, deep and roasting, radiates from the pavement. This is a masculine world, she thinks, with its odd bits of machinery, its briefing room, its tower. All around her there was metal, brilliant or dull in the sun's glare.

He walks briefly, the plane is pretty with red and white markings. She takes his hand as she steps onto the wing, then crawls through the tiny opening into the cockpit, the size of which is immediately alarming. How could something as monumental as flight take place in such a small place? Flight, which has always seemed to Olivia to be improbable, now seems clearly impossible, and she tells herself, as she has sometimes done when in a car with a bad driver or on a ride at a carnival, that this will be over soon and all she has to do is survive.

After helping her get into the cockpit, James hoists himself inside. He tells her to buckle up and hands her headphones, which he explains will make it easier for them to talk to each other over the noise of the engine. They bump along the pitted tarmac, the plane feels loose and wobbly. She wants to tell him to stop, that she had changed her mind. The plane gathers speed, the bouncing stops, and they are up.

Her heart fills her chest, James turns to her, his smile full of confidence and amusement, a smile that says this will be fun, so just relax. Before her is a huge expanse of blue, what happened to the ground? She has an image of a plane reaching a terrible height, tipping slightly, and then falling, as nature would demand it to do. Besides her, James gestures towards the window.

"Take a look" he says

They are over the coast, so high up the surf looks stationary. The ocean ripples back to a darker blue. James banks for a turn, and her hands jerk out to save herself. She wants to tell him to be careful, which immediately strikes her as inane. Of course he will be careful. Won't he?

As if in answer, he angles the plane steeply up, an angle so shark she thinks he must be testing the very laws of physics. She is certain they will fall from the sky. She calls out his name, but he is intent upon his instruments and doesn't answer. Gravity pits her against the back of her seat. They climb to a long, high loop, and for a second, they are motionless, upside down, a speck suspended over the Atlantic. The plane dives then into a run out the other side of the loop. She screams and grabs for whatever she can reach. James glances over at her once quickly and puts the plane vertical to the ground. She watches James at the controls, his calm movements, the concentration on his face. It amazes her that a man can make a plane do tricks-tricks with gravity, with physics, with fate.

And then the world is silent. As if surprised itself, the plane begins to fall. Not like a stone, but rather like a leaf, fluttering a bit and then dipping to the right. Heartsick, she glances at James. The plane begins to spy crazily, its nose pointed toward the ground. Olivia arches her back, unable to scream. When he pulls out of the spin, they are not a hundred feet from the water. She can see whitecaps, the twitching of a slightly agitated sea. Astonishing herself, she begins to cry.

"Are you okay?" James asks quickly, seeing her tears. He puts his hand on her thigh. He shakes his head.

"I never should of done that." He says "Im so sorry. I thought you would enjoy it.

She turns to look at him. She covers his hand with her own and takes a deep shuddering breath.

"That was thrilling" she says. And she means it.

* * *

 **It would be great if you commented, or left a review! Tell me what you think so far, or what you're favorite chapter is and why. :)**


	8. Records

**Hey guys, i won't be able to update until late tomorrow as I have a flight to catch and I'm heading to New York. But updates will come. Tell me what you think so far.**

* * *

Elliot had just entered the house by now, and he had seen the fear in her eyes. Olivia hadn't told him anything, neither had Robert, all he knew was speculation of pilot error. She turned away from Robert and grabbed Elliot, guiding him towards the front door. She put on her heeled black boots, thick heels that made her three inches taller, more sophisticated looking, the way the leather made her look slick. She hadn't grabbed a jacket, as it was nearing seventy outside. She opened the door, bombarded with photos and questions. The first time she would be outside of the house. The door shut closed and left Robert in the house.

"Elliot lets go, you're driving."

She pushed her away past the press, shoving the questions aside. She made it it Elliots squad car, entering the vehicle and finally having Elliot start the engine and drive away from the crowd.

Elliot looks at the thinning woman in the passenger seat.

"Where to?" he asks, keeping his hands on the wheel

"I don't care."

"Coffee?"

Olivia looks out the window, her hand resting against her head

"Sure."

In the wake of Robert's news, which Olivia most insistently refused to credit, had only wanted to be with Elliot right now. Margaret was alright with Julia, but Olivia couldn't tell the four year old that her father had taken his own life, let alone 344 other's lives. She wouldn't believe it was suicide. It couldn't be. It was impossible, she thought. It was unimaginable, unthinkable, out of the question.

"There saying suicide." Olivia blurted out, her eyes looking into the distance

Elliot immediately looked at the woman, seeing her profile, her eyes droopy, her expression, broken. He couldn't form the words, he couldn't ask why. He wouldn't.

"I'm-"

"El, don't bother. It couldn't of been suicide. I just won't believe it."

"Alright. Because I don't either. Now lets just get coffee, take our minds off that."

"Will I ever be able to?" Olivia says, look at him with glossy eyes

She continues

"Will I ever be able to stop thinking about the possibility that my husband was so unhappy, so depressed, angry even, at himself, someone, maybe even me, that he would take his own life, let alone hundreds of others?!" Olivia says, out of breath

"Olivia." Elliot starts "He loved you. He loved Julia. It couldn't have been suicide. He wouldn't do that."

They pull over next to the curb and Elliot guides opens her side of the door. They're at a coffee vendor outside of her neighborhood, nearby the precinct. She recognizes that it's the vendor they usually go to. It did have the best coffee after all. She got out of the car, starting out with a slower pace, a calm born of exhaustion, possibly, or simply a disguised numbness, descending upon her.

"Hey Mike" Elliot says, Olivia trailing behind her

Mike would stay out for hours with his coffee vendor, staying as late as ten pm, and as early as five am. After all, his usual customers were cops. He had been on the corner for nearly twenty years, beating out starbucks and peets for having the cheapest coffee, and for being pretty good.

"Hey Elliot, how ya doing?" Mike says, trailing over the words with his thick Brooklyn accent

He finds eye contact with Olivia, noticing how she looks different. He knew the entirety of the recent events, the woman's husband had gone down with his plane, speculations were made, but not confirmed. He didn't want to ask how she was, she was portably miserable.

"Hey Olivia, nice to see you" he says instead, choosing his words carefully

He hands both of them large coffees, and Elliot takes his wallet out, paying Mike.

Olivia takes the coffees, appreciating Mike's word choice, knowing that he's respectful to not bring up recent events.

"Have a good day." Mike says, watching the two step away from his set up

He wished Olivia the best, that she would get through this.

The two got back in their car. The thought of James came to her, his own death, coming randomly on the tail of another thought. A memory, an image, didn't rock her quite violently as it had done days before. How quickly the mind accommodated itself she thought. Perhaps that it was that after as series of shocks, the body acclimated itself. They drove through blocks of houses, passing people walking to and fourth to work. All routine, to get to work, to get home, to start the day again again.

Olivia had been one to know routine. As she had done the same thing everyday to get to work. And of course, James had understood routine. particularly in a job that had required a man to become a machine that would behave in precisely a certain way each time a circumstance came into play. Oddly, he was impatient with routine when he was out of the plane. He preferred to think of possibilities and would be ready for them. Out of the two of them, he would be more likely to say "lets go to staten island" or "lets head up north for a weekend."

They had finally pulled back up to the house, the press still there. Some ready to take photos, others eating their breakfast, choking it down, waiting to hopefully get a few words in. Elliot opened the door for her, and she walked out. Olivia walked to her front door, a path cleared by the press. Then she heard one of the questions that she knew she didn't want to hear.

 _"How do you feel that your husband not only took his life but murdered 344 other people?"_

She immediately rushed to her door and entered into her house, Elliot delayed.

"It wasn't suicide." Elliot said, before turning into the house

* * *

They walk into the kitchen, surprised that theres more people than there was before. Next to Robert are two men, people from the airlines, Olivia assumed. She hadn't seen these particular people before. Olivia leaned against the kitchen door, her back pressing against the door handle. In the harsh sunlight that came threw the windows, she could see the smallest details on Robert's face, the faint bluish line from where a beard might have grown if he hadn't shaved, white ghost skin below his sideburns where the hair was cut shorter than an old tan line, the under shadow of his jaw.

"Whom are they?" she asks, Elliot behind her looking at the scene unfolding

"These are investigators from the Safety Board who want to talk with you."

"In my house?"

"Yes."

"Do I have to answer their questions?" Olivia asks, looking at the two men, then at Robert

He looked away, and then back again.

She nodded slowly.

"I can't protect you from the crash investigation itself. Or from legal proceedings." Robert says

"Legal proceedings?"

"In the event..." one of the men says

"I thought this was just a wild rumor."

"It is. At the moment."

"Why? What do you know? What's on the tape?" Olivia says, getting louder, as if she was interrogating a suspect

"One of our American technicians with the Safety Board was in the room when the tape was first played. He called a woman he's involved with at CNN, he apparently made statements about the tape. I don't know for certain what his motivation was in revealing this, but we can speculate. Now CNN has reported this and all the other networks are catching on. So at best, this is third or fourth hand."

"But it might bet true." one of the men says

"It might be true." he continues

Olivia shifted her feet, crossing her arms at her chest. Elliot behind her, put his arm on her back.

Robert removed a small white sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. He handed her the fax.

"This is exactly how the bulletin was read over CNN" he said

The fax was hard to read. The square letters, some with watery stems, swam before her. She tried to focus on a sentence, to begin from the top.

 _"CNN has just learned that a source close to the investigation of American Airlines flight 270 is reporting that the CVR-that's the cockpit voice recorder,may, and we stressed may, reveal an altercation between Captain James O'Connell, a ten year veteran with American airlines, and British flight engineer Trevor Sullivan just moments before the explosion. According to as yet unconfirmed statements, a malfunctioning headset caused Sullivan to reach into Captain James O'Connell's flight bag six and a half hours into the flight,the object that Sullivan had pulled out of the flight bag may, and again we stress may, have been the source of the explosion that ripped apart the plane, sending all 345 passengers and crew to their death. In addition the alleged source reports that the transcript of the last several seconds of American Airline flight 270 may indicate that a scuffle of some kind took place between Captain James O'Connell and flight engineer Sullivan, and that several expletives were uttered by Sullivan. Henry Slater, a spokesperson for the Safety Board, was heated earlier today in his denial of these allegations which he called maliciously false and irresponsible. This report we repeat comes from an as yet unnamed source that claims to have been present when the CVR tape was played. The CVR, as we noted earlier, was located last night in the waters off the Cliffs of Moher, in Republic of Ireland..."_

Olivia shut her eyes and leaned her head back against the door.

"What does that mean?" she asked

Robert looked briefly at the ceiling of the kitchen

"First of all we don't know if it's true. The Safety Board has already issued a strenuous reprimand, the source who leaked the quotes has apparently been fired. They won't say his name, and he hasn't come forward. And second of all, even if it is true, it doesn't neccessarily prove anything. Or even mean anything. Neccessarily."

"But it does." Olivia said. "Something happened."

"Something happened." Robert said

"Oh my god." she said

* * *

 **It would be great to see what you guys think in a review! Here's a question for you guys.**

 **Now that we've gotten pretty far, what are any of your questions that I could answer in the next update?**


	9. Forgotten

**ALERT: I am thinking of updating my other stories, In the Streets of San Francisco and Secrets of Savannah, should I? Check them out and see what you think.**

 **Sorry for a late update! I'm in New York, and I'm adjusting to the time difference, but here is a chapter! Don't forget to review! I want to try for 100 reviews by this chapter!**

* * *

She comes home, nearly at midnight, exhausted from the day she had to endure. Not only did she have to run after a guy who kicked Elliot where it hurt, she had to jump from a set of stairs and tackle the guy. Elliot had grilled the guy for three hours, getting him to eventually came in through the door and immediately looked in the closet, seeing her safe, she put her gun in it and closed it, locking it.

"I'm home." Olivia said, coming around the corner of the kitchen

She stares at the counter, at the greasy pots and glasses and the caked roasting pan, at the sickening pile of rotting vegetables at the sink, at the dishwasher, which is full of clean dishes and will have to be unloaded before she can even begin to clear the counter.

James didn't answer, and she assumed he was in his office. Julia was in bed, sound asleep. Olivia was left in the kitchen.

She climbs the stairs to James' office and stands silently with her glass of wine, leaning against the door way. She has no articulate dialogue, just jumbled thoughts, unfinished sentences. Phrases of frustration. Perhaps she had too much to drink.

James looks up at her with a vaguely puzzled expression on his face. He has on a flannel shirt and jeans. He's put on weight recently, ten pounds. He has a tendency to gain weight when he isn't careful.

"What's happening?" she asks

"What?"

"I mean, you come home from a five day trip. I've hardly seen you. You don't say a word to me when I come in. And then after all that, you're stuck up here, leaving me with all the dishes."

He seems surprised by these accusations, as, in truth, is she. He blinks. He turns his head to something that has caught his attention on the screen.

"Even now you can't pay attention to what I'm saying. What is so goddamn interesting on the computer anyway?"

He takes his hands off the computer and rests his elbows on the arms of his chair.

"What is all this about?" He asks

"You." she says "And me."

"And?"

"We're not..." she says "We're just not-"

She takes a sip of wine.

"You're not there" Olivia says "You used to be so...I don't know...romantic. You used to compliment me all the time. I can't remember the last time you told me I was beautiful."

 _Her lip quivers, and she looks away. She hears mother's voice then, her mother's drunk voice pleading with her boyfriend or whatever one night stand it was, to tell her she was beautiful. Has this bit of awful dialogue been lying in wait for her? A kind of grotesque legacy?_

She shudders. But she can't leave it alone. For months now, James has been distant, as though not altogether there, as though constantly preoccupied. Preoccupation can be tolerated, Olivia thought.

"My God" she says, her voice rising in a notch "We haven't been out to dinner in months. All yo ever do is come up here and work on the computer. Or play on the computer. Whatever you do."

He leans back in the chair.

 _"What possible accusation that he hasn't recently told his wife that she is beautiful?" Olivia thinks to herself "That he has simply forgotten? That in fact he thinks it all the time, but just doesn't say it? That he thinks she is desperately beautiful right that very minute?_

Thats the problem with a fight, Olivia decides. Even when you know the words you are saying are the worst possible utterances, there is always a point of no return. Of no backing off, no retreating. She is already there, and in a flash James reaches it.

"Fuck you." he says quietly, and he stands

Olivia flinches. She is immediately aware, as she was not before, not when it was her own righteous anger, that Julia is just down the hall.

"Keep your voice down" Olivia says

James puts his hands on his hips. His face grows red, as it sometimes does when he's angry, which isn't often. They don't have a history of fighting.

"Fuck you" he says again

This time in a louder, though still controlled voice.

"I work five days in a row without a letup. I come home to get a good night's sleep. I come up here to fool around on the computer and relax. And before I can even blink, you're up here complaining."

"You came home to get a good night's sleep?" She asks

"You know what I mean."

"This just didn't happen tonight." She says "It's been happening for months now"

"Months?"

"Yes."

"What exactly has been happening for months?"

"You're not here, you're more interested in the computer than you are in me."

"Fuck you." he says, brushing past her towards the stairs

She hears him descend the steps, as though he is running. She hears the refrigerator door opened, followed by the sound of a beer can being popped.

When she gets to the kitchen, he is drinking beer in one swallow. He sets the can down on the counter with a hard clink and stares out the kitchen window. She examines his profile, his face, which she loves, the aggressive thrust of his neck, which alarms her. She wants to give in, to go to him and say she is sorry, to put her arms around him and tell him she loves him. But before she can move, she thinks again about the sensation of being abandoned, for that is what she means to describe, and so repentance quickly gives way to grievance. Why should she back off?

"You never talk to me anymore" she says "I feel like you don't know me anymore"

His jaw moves slightly forward, and he clenches his teeth. He tosses the beer can into the sink, where it clatters against the dirty dishes.

"You want me to go?" he asks, looking at her

"Go?"

"Yeah, you want to end it or what?"

"No, I don't want to end it" she says, taken aback "What are you talking about, you're crazy."

"I'm crazy?" he repeats, this time in a louder voice

When he brushes past her to go up the stairs, she tries to grab his arm, but he shakes her off. In the kitchen, she stands as still as stone as she hears his angry tread on the steps, hears his office door slam, hears the muffled thudding of objects being roughly moved around on his desk, hears the snaps of wires. He's leaving her and taking the computer with him?

And then, horrified, she watches as the computer monitor crashes down the stairs. The monitor gouges the plaster wall at the foot of the steps. Bits of gray plastic and smoked glass from the shattered screen fly into the air and litter the stairs and the kitchen floor. It is a spectacular smash, loud and theatrical.

Olivia utters a low moan, knowing that it has all gone too far and that she has caused it, had goaded him. And then, she thinks of Julia. By the time Olivia has made her way over the smashed monitor and gotten to the top of the stairs, Julia is coming down the hallway in her pajamas.

"What's wrong?" Julia asks, although Olivia can see that she knows, has heard everything.

James looks stricken with the instant remorse that follows an insanely childish act in front of one's children.

"Julia" Olivia says "Daddy dropped his computer down the stairs. It's a mess, but everything is okay."

Julia gives them both the look, she is only four years old, is always dead on and never misses. But Olivia can see on her daughters face that is is ferociously shocked with sheer horror. James turns to Julia and enfolds his daughter in his arms. That alone says everything. There is no pretending now that this didn't happen. It is just perhaps better not to say it aloud.

And then James reaches out his arm and draws Olivia into the fold, so that the three of them stand in the hallway, swaying and crying and saying I'm sorry and kissing each other and hugging again and then standing back and laughing silently through the tears and runny noses, with Julia offering, helpfully to get tissue.

That night, Olivia and James make love as they have not done in months, with a ragged edge, as though playing out the rest of the scene with open mouths and small bites, locked thighs and pinned wrists. And the voracious momentum of that night changes, for a time, their marriage, so that they look more often into each other's eyes as they pass in the hallway, trying mutely to say something meaningful, and kiss each other with more enthusiasm whenever they meet, in the house, or outside by the cars even, several times, in public, which pleases Olivia. But after a while, that too passes, and she and James go back to normal, as they have been before, which is to say that they, like all the other couples Olivia has ever known, live in a state of gentle decline, but not agonizingly, less than they were the day before.

Which means, on the whole, she thinks that it is a good marriage.

* * *

 **ALERT: I am thinking of updating my other stories, In the Streets of San Francisco and Secrets of Savannah, should I? Check them out and see what you think.**

 **Alright! Tell me what you think, get me to 100 reviews! Any questions? Hope you enjoyed!**


	10. Why

**Hello readers! I'm so sorry for such a late update. I was with a friend for a few days. I finally go to write and I hope you enjoy this chapter, there's some important information revealed! Please leave reviews!**

* * *

She had never seen anything like it before, not even on a television or in movies, where a spectacle, she now understood, lost its immediacy, it's garish color, its menace. Along the sidewalk in front of the brownstone, there were parked cars and fat vans with their far wheels stuck into the curbs. Olivia saw call letters on the vans, CNN, ABC, WNBC, CBS, a man running with a camera and complicated brace on his shoulder. People were beginning to look at the car, to peer at the passengers side. Robert hunched over the steering wheel, as though at any minute they might be assaulted. Olivia resisted the urge to turn her head away or to bring her hands to her face.

"Remind me why we did this?" she asked, her voice tight, her lips barely moving

A man banged hard against the passenger door window and Olivia flinched. Robert moved the car forward, peering through the crowd to find a policeman, and almost immediately, the car was engulfed, men and woman shouting through the glass.

"Mrs. O'Connell, have you heard the tape?"

"Is that her? Darren, is that her?"

"Move, get her face."

"Can you comment Mrs. O'Connell? Do you think it was suicide?"

"Who's the guy with her? Is that Jerry from the airline?"

"Mrs. O'Connell, how do you explain...?"

To Oliva, the voices sounded like dogs barking. Mouths appeared magnified and watery, the colors around her heightening and then subduing themselves. She wondered briefly if she was fainting. How could she possibly be the focus of so much attention, she who had lived the most ordinary of lives under the most ordinary of circumstances? Not really, but to her she did, once she became a cop.

"Jesus Christ" Robert said when a camera lens banged sharply against his window "That guy just broke his camera"

Sitting taller to see beyond the crowd, Olivia spotted Elliot instead. Olivia waved through the windshield, trying to catch his attention.

"It's Elliot, he's on the other side of the crowd."

"You drive." Robert said "Lock the door for me, what's his last name again?"

"Stabler."

With one fluid motion, so swift it was over before it had registered, Robert stepped out of the car and slammed the door. Olivia slid awkwardly over the gearshift into the drivers seat and locked the door. She watched Robert put his hands into the pockets of his top coat and shoulder his way through the reporters and cameramen. He yelled Elliot Stabler so loudly that everyone stopped for a moment to look at the man separating the crowd. Olivia began to move the car forward into the vacuum Robert created as he walked. What would happen, she wondered, if the wall of people in front of her simply refused to part?

She worried for a moment that the crowd might simply go with her, move her to the house like a cortège, a grotesque cortege with the widow trapped inside the car, a beetle under glass. At that moment she turned the engine off, and left the car abandoned there. She pushed her way through the crowds and walked in silence, soon having Elliot and Robert guide her into the house.

She looked out the window and saw four unfamiliar cars, one with it's door still open and the dinging bell. Four cars mean at least that many strangers.

"You don't have to do this now." Robert said

"But I'll have to do it sometime." she said

"Possibly."

"Shouldn't I have a lawyer?"

"The union's taking care of it." He put his hand on her shoulder "Just don't give these guys any answers you're not absolutely sure of."

"I'm not sure of anything" she said

* * *

They were in her kitchen and in the front room, men in black uniforms and dark suits. A large man with oval wire dimmed glasses and excessively gelled hair came forward to greet Olivia first. His collar, she noticed, cut into his neck, and his face was flushed. He waddled somewhat, in the way of heavy men, leading with his stomach.

"Mrs. O'Connell" he said, holding out his hand "Dick Somers"

She let him take her hand, his grip was tentative and damp. The phone rang, and she was glad Robert didn't leave her to answer it.

"From?" Olivia asked

"I'm yet another investigator from the Safety Board, let me say how very sorry I am, we all are, for your terrible loss."

Olivia could hear a low, steady male voice on a television in the other room.

"But I do have some questions."

He turned to the other man next to him.

"My colleague, Henry Boyd." Somers said, introducing a younger man with a blonde mustache

Four other men came forward to be introduced, men in America Airlines uniforms, with their caps tucked under their arms, the uniform, with it's gold buttons and braid, it's familiarity, causing Olivia to catch her breath. They were from the airline, the chief pilot's office, they said, and Olivia thought how strange these greetings were, these niceties, these condolences, these cautious condolences, when all about them there was the palpable strain of waiting.

A man with iron filing hair stepped forward than the rest.

"Mrs. O'Connell, I'm Chief Pilot Bill Tierney" he said "We talked briefly on the phone yesterday"

"Yes"

"Let me once again express myself how sorry I truly am, he was an excellent pilot, one of our best."

Olivia imagined how many times the chief pilot had to say these words to the widows of the pilots.

"What can you tell me about the tape?" Olivia asked

Tierney pursed his lips and shook his head.

"No information about the tape has been officially released."

"I understand that." Olivia said, turning to the investigator. "But you know something, don't you? You know what's on the tape."

"No I'm afraid I don't." he said

But behind his wire rimmed glasses were his eyes, skittish and evasive.

"One of you left your car door open." Olivia said, gesturing towards the door

"Why don't we sit in the living room?" Somers said

Feeling unfamiliar in her own house, Olivia walked into the living room, the men following behind her

She had found only one seat left open, James' not hers. She felt dwarfed by the size of it.

Somers seemed to be in charge, he stood while everyone else sat.

"I'm just going to ask you a few questions, it shouldn't take too long." he said

"Can you tell us anything about how your husband was behaving prior to his departure for the airport on Sunday?"

Olivia saw that no one had a tape recorder out or was writing anything down. Somers seemed almost excessively casual. This couldn't be office then, could it?

"There's not a lot to tell." she said "It was routine, James took a shower, got dressed in his uniform, came downstairs, and shined his shoes."

"And where were you?"

"I joined him in the kitchen. To say goodbye."

The word goodbye triggered a quick jolt of sadness and she bit her lip. She tired to remember Sunday, the last day James had been home. Occasionally, she had fragments, dream bits like the fluttering glints of silver in the dark. It seemed to her that it had been an ordinary day, nothing special about it. She could see James' foot on the pulled out drawer, the old green checked rag in his hands as she passed through the kitchen on the way to the laundry room. The length of his arms, lengthened even more by the weight of his bass as he walked to the car outside. He'd said something over his shoulder. She'd had the rag in her hand. Don't forget to call Alfred, he'd said. And tell him Friday.

He'd shined his shoes. He'd left the house. He would be home, he said, on Tuesday. She was tired in the middle of the doorway, slightly annoyed he hadn't done it himself. Call Alfred.

"To your knowledge, did James call anyone that day?" Somers asked "Talk to anyone?"

"I have no idea."

She wondered. Could James have talked to someone that day? Of course he could have. He could have talked to twenty people for all she knew.

Robert and Elliot had their arms crossed over their chest. They seemed to be studying the coffee table with great interest. On the table were books, a stone plate that James had brought back from Spain, and an enabled box from Portugal.

"Mrs. O'Connell" Somers continued "Did your husband seem agitated or depressed that day or the night before?"

"No" Olivia said "Nothing out of the ordinary. The shower was leaking, and I remember he was a bit annoyed with that, since we'd only had it recently repaired. I remember he said to call Alfred."

"Alfred is?"

"Alfred McKinnon, the plumber."

"And when did he ask you to call Alfred?"

"Twice actually, once upstairs and ten minutes before he left, and again, walking out to the car."

"Did James have a drink prior to his departing to the airport?"

"Don't answer that." Robert said, sitting forward on the sofa.

Olivia crossed her legs and thought about the wine James and she had had with dinner on Saturday night and had continued to have after dinner, and she quickly calculated the number of hours between his last drink and his flight. At least eighteen, that was all right then. What was the phrase? Twelve hours from the bottle to the throttle?

"It's alright." she said to Robert "Nothing." she said to Somers

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing at all."

"Did you pack his suitcase?" he asked

"No. I never do."

"Or his flight bag?"

"No. Absolutely not. I virtually never look in there."

"Do you usually unpack his suitcase?"

"No. That's James' responsibility. He takes care of his own bags."

She heard the words, takes care of, present tense.

"Did your husband have any close friends in the U.K?" Somers asked "Did he regularly talk to someone there?"

"The U.K.?"

"England. Ireland. Scotland."

"I know what U.K. means" she said "I just don't understand the relevance of this question. He knew a lot of people in the U.K. He flew with them."

"Have you noticed any unusual withdrawals from or deposits into any of your bank accounts?"

She wondered where they were going with this, what any of it meant. She felt herself to be on shifting ground, as though at any moment she might step unthinkingly into a crevice.

"I don't understand." she began

"In the last several weeks, did you notice any unusual behavior in your husband?"

She had to answer this one, for James' sake. She wanted to answer it.

"No."

"Nothing out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing."

Olivia looked down at her feet.

"Everything all right Mrs. O'Connell?"

"Just fine." Olivia answered

"Mrs. O'Connell..."

"May I be permitted to ask you a question, Mr Somers?"

Olivia heard the anger in her voice.

"Yes of course." the investigator said warily

"What other scenarios besides suicide have you imagined given the material that is theoretically on the CVR?"

Somers looked discomfited. "I'm not at liberty to discuss that just now, Mrs. O'Connell."

"Oh really?" she asked quietly

She looked down at her feet, then up at the faces in her living room. They were backlit, haloed by the light from the windows.

"Then I guess I'm not at liberty just now to answer your questions." she said

Robert stood up.

"This interview is over." Olivia said

She got up and left, going upstairs to her bedroom.

She sat on her bed, looking out the window, her eyes fixed on the wind blowing around the trees outside. She was started by the creak of a door.

Robert was at her door.

"I was hoping you would bolt." he said

She put her arms on her lap. Was Robert telling the truth? she wondered. Was he glad she bolted?

"Have they gone?" she asked

"No."

"And?"

"They'll be alright. They have to do this. I don't think they really expected you to say anything."

She clutched her hair into a ponytail, tightening her grip with each word that came out of Robert's mouth.

"We need to have a funeral." she said

He nodded.

"Julia and I need to honor James." she said "Julia needs to honor her father."

And she thought suddenly that this was true. James should be honored.

"It wasn't suicide. I'm sure of that."

A pigeon cooed suddenly, the bird landing at her windowsill.

"When I was small," she said " I used to think I wanted to come back in my next life as a pigeon. Until my mother told me how filthy they are."

"The rats of the sky." Robert said

Olivia removed a strand of hair from her mouth. She looked out the window to find families with strollers heading to the park. Looking down, she sighed.

"When Julia was tinier, maybe two, I used to worry that something would happen to her if I didn't keep my eyes on her."

"Two summers ago, that happened to a five year old, she turned up dead, kidnapped and assaulted. Her name was Rosemary. I remember thinking that was such an old fashioned name to give a girl."

He nodded.

"When it happened, all I could think of is how treacherous the world truly is, one minute your life is normal, the next it isn't."

"You of all people should know that." Robert said

Olivia looked up at him.

"You're thinking how it could have been worse. Aren't you?"

"Yes."

"It might have been you and Julia on that plane."

"Yes."

"That would have been unbearable, literally unbearable."

"You could go away you know? You and Julia."

"Go away?"

"To the Bahamas. To Bermuda. For a couple of weeks, until things die down."

Olivia tried to imagine Bermuda right now with Julia. Olivia shook her head.

" I couldn't do that." Olivia said "And besides, I don't think Julia would go."

"Some of the relatives have gone to Ireland."

"And what? Stay in a motel with a hundred other families who are out of their minds? Or go to the crash site and wait for the divers to bring up body parts? No, I don't think so."

"What was your life like before this?"

"A sort of ordinary life, not really, more of hectic, less hectic then this at least." Olivia said "It was different each day. Which one do you want?"

"I don't know Thursdays?"

"I take Julia to upstairs to Margaret to get her to school, then Elliot and I grab coffee, get to work, then depending what happens, I can either be holding a gun at someone, interrogating someone, or in court."

"And James?"

"When James was there, he was there. He did it all."

Elliot had suddenly came into the room, interrupting the two.

"Somers has just a few questions left, then he'll get out of here."

Olivia turns on her bed.

"Might as well get this over with."

The three make their way downstairs. Somers rolled a fax in his hand. Olivia announced that she had a short statement to make.

"My husband, James, never gave me nor anyone else any indication of instability, drug use, abuse of alcohol, depression, or physically illness." she said

"As far as I know" she said "he was healthy, both physically and mentally. We had a happy marriage and were a normal family. As you all know, my daughter is with my friend, and neither of them are to be interviewed or contacted at all. That's all."

"Mrs. O'Connell." Somers said "Have you been in contact with James' mother?"

"His mother is dead." Olivia said

And then silence ensued. In the silence, she knew something was wrong. The silence was complete even with so many people in her house.

"I don't think that's the case." said Somers softly, placing the paper into his breast pocket

The floor seemed to dip and waver like a ride at an amusement park. Somers pulled a torn piece of notebook paper from another pocket.

"Marge O"Connell" he read "Forest Park nursing home, 245 Jefferson Street, Ontario, New York."

The ride picked up speed and dropped fifty feet. Olivia felt light headed, dizzy.

"Divorced three times, only son is James Dean O'Connell."

Olivia's mouth went dry, and she licked her top lip. Perhaps there was something she hadn't understood correctly.

"James' mother is alive?"

"Yes."

"James always said..."

She stopped herself. She thought about what James had always said. His mother had died when he was nine. Of cancer. Olivia glanced quickly at Robert and Elliot, and she could see from the expression that they too, were taken back. She thought about the arrogance, the smug certainty, with which she had made her statement seconds earlier.

"Apparently." Somers said

The investigator was enjoying this, Olivia thought.

"How did you discover her?" Olivia asked

"She's listed in military records."

"And James' father?" she asked

"Deceased."

She sat on the nearest chair an shut her eyes. She felt vaguely drunk, the room swirling unpleasantly behind her eyelids. All this time, she thought, Julia had had a grandmother.

But why? she asked herself

James. Why? she silently asked her husband

* * *

 **Now how do you all feel about that? :) Anyways, leave a review please! What do you think will happen?**


	11. Honor

**So for all of you waiting to see when this gets more into Bensler, don't worry it will, if you truly enjoy my story you'll wait. But I promise, it will be bensler within the next few chapters! Please leave reviews!**

* * *

They walk along the beach in the sun,hitting eighty. Julia, in a red sox jacket, runs ahead to look for crabs. The beach is flat and shallow, curved like a shell, the sand the color of weathered wood with calligraphy of seaweed written along it's crust. Behind the seawall are the summer houses, full now, summer being in full swing. Too late, Olivia realizes she should have told Julia, only four, to take off her shoes.

James' shoulders are hunched against the cold. He wears his leather jacket as always, even on the hottest of days, unwilling to invest in a t-shirt, or perhaps too vain, she has never been exactly sure. Her own flannel shirt hangs is tied at her waist, her arms getting darker with the sun hitting her bare arms with the tank top she has on.

"Whats wrong?" she asks

"Nothing" he says, "I'm fine."

"You seem subdued."

"I'm okay."

He walks with his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead. His mouth is set in a hard line. She wonders what has happened to upset him.

"Did I do something?" she asks

"No" he says

"Julia has a art show for her pottery class."

"Good" he says

"Can you be there?" she asks

"No, I have a trip"

There is a pause.

"You know" she says "Once in a while you could bid a schedule that gave you more free time, more time to be at home."

"Says the woman who has the same problem, you're married to that job."

She is silent.

"Julia misses you." Olivia says

"Look" he says "Don't make it worse for me than it already is."

From the corner of her eye, she can see Julia twirling in circles on the beach. Olivia feels distracted, pulled toward the man beside her by a gravity that seemed unnatural. She wonders if he's feeling well. Perhaps he is simply tired. She has heard the stories, the statistics. Most airline pilots die before they reach retirement age, which is sixty. It's the stress, the strain of unusual schedules, the wear and tear of the body.

She moves towards him, tucks her hands around his stiffened arm. Still, he stares ahead.

"James, tell me what is it?"

"Drop it, will you?"

Stung, she let his arm go and walks away.

"It's the weather" he says, catching up to her "I don't know."

Apologetic now, mollifying.

"What about the weather" she says coldly, unwillingly to be so easily mollified.

"The stickiness of it, the feeling of just not being relaxed. I hate it."

"I don't think anyone likes it much" she says evenly

"Olivia, you don't understand"

He removes his hands from his pockets, adjusting his jacket, he seems to slip further into his leather jacket.

"Today is my mother's birthday" he says quietly "Or would have been"

"Oh James" she says going to him "You should of said"

"Was it very bad when your mother died?"

"I don't like to talk about it."

"I know you don't but talking about it can make it better."

"I doubt it."

"Was she sick along time."

He hesitates. "Not too long. It was quick."

"What was it?"

"I told you. Cancer."

"No, I know" she says "I mean, what kind?"

He sighs silently "Breast" he says "In those days, they didn't have the kind of treatments."

She puts her hand on his arm.

"It's a terrible age to be left without a mother" she says

Just five years older than Julia, she thinks suddenly, and the realization makes her go cold all over. It is agonizing to think of Julia left without a mother, considering the job she does.

"She was Irish right? You once said"

"She was born there, she had a beautiful voice, a beautiful accent."

"You had your dad."

James makes a short, derisive sound. "Dad isn't exactly the correct word, my father was an asshole."

The word, which James seldom uses, shocks her.

She unzips his leather jacket, and snakes her arms inside.

"James" she says

"I don't know what it is" he says "Sometimes I'm afraid, sometimes I think I have no center on gray days, no beliefs."

"You have me" she says quickly

"That's true."

"You have Julia" she says

"I know, I know. Of course."

"Aren't we enough" she asks

"Where is Julia?" she asks, suddenly pulling away

Olivia whips around and scans beach. James spots her first, a brief flash of red among the gray. Olivia inexplicably paralyzed, watches James race across the sand and wade with high steps into the waves. She waits an endless minute and then sees James snatch Julia like a small dog from the surf. He holds his daughter facedown by the waist and she thinks for a moment that he will shake Julia dry like a dog. But then she hears a familiar cry. James kneels on the beach, whips off his leather jacket and enfold the small body. When Olivia reaches the two of them, he is wiping seawater from his daughter's face with the tail of his shirt.

Julia looks stunned.

"The wave knocked her down" James says breathlessly "And the undertow was taking her out"

Olivia picks Julia up, cradling her in her arms.

"Let's go" James says quickly "In a minute, she'll be freezing"

They begin to to walk fast back to the house. Julia coughs and wheezes from the seawater. Olivia murmurs soothing words. Julia's face is bright pink from the cold sea.

James holds Julia's hand as if attached to his daughter by an umbilical cord. His pants are soaked, his shirt untucked, Olivia thinks that he too, must be freezing. The thought of what might have happened to Mattie had he not seen her in time weakens her arms, her knees. She stops abruptly on the beach,and, in a natural movement, James encircles her and Julia in his arms.

"Aren't we enough?" she asks again

James bends his head and kisses Olivia on the forehead.

"Enough of what?" Julia asks

* * *

Sometimes she felt as if she had lived, three, four years within the few days. At other times it seemed just minutes ago that Robert had stood at her door and uttered the two words, Mrs. O'Connell, that had changed her life. She could not remember time looping in on itself in such a manner before, except perhaps for those two or three sublime days when she had first met James O'Connell, and fallen in love, and life had been measured out in minutes rather than hours.

She lay on the bed in the guest room, her arms outstretched, her head slightly raised on a pillow. It was sunny outside, but now the sky was beginning to have clouds swirl around the blue sky. She pulled out a hair clip that held her hair together and tossed it onto the floor, where it skidded along the polished wooden boards and came to rest against the baseboard. She had meant that morning to get up and clean the traces of the past five years of James. Climbing out of bed, she found her way to James' office, she opened the door and gazed at the pulled drawers and scattered papers on the floor, the strange nakedness of desk without it's computer equipment. She had known that the FBI would come with search warrants and documents, but she hadn't known precisely when. She had not been back to the house since the memorial service, where she'd been staying at Elliot's for a few days. Nor had Robert, who had returned to Washington immediately after the memorial service. She had finally returned to the empty house.

Julia was in bed, and Olivia insisted that she stay in bed, a nice peaceful coma that would allow her to sleep for a couple of days, to awaken to a consciousness dulled by time, so that she would not be hit again and again with the pain that was always absurdly and cuttingly fresh. It was why Julia slept so long, Olivia thought, to postpone that awful moment of knowing.

Olivia wished she herself could manage a coma, instead she felt herself to be inside a private weather system, one in which she was continuously tossed and buffeted by bits of news and information, sometimes chilled by thoughts of what lay immediately ahead, thawed by the kindness of others, frequently drenched by memories that seemed to have no regard for circumstance or place, and then subjected to the nearly intolerable heat of reporters, photographers, and curious onlookers. It was a weather system with no logic, she had decided, no pattern, no progression, no form. Sometimes she was unable to sleep or eat or, most oddly, to read even a single article through to the end. And not because the subject matter was James or the explosion, but because she couldn't summon the necessary concentration. At other times, when speaking to others who were on the phone, Elliot, or Robert, she couldn't get to the end of a sentence without forgetting what the beginning had been, nor could she remember, from moment to moment, what task it was that she had been engaged in. Occasionally, she found no idea who it was that had called or why. Her mind felt crowded, as though there were a critical fact teasing her at the periphery of her brain, a detail she ought to be thinking about, a memory she ought to be seizing, a solution to a problem that seemed just beyond her grasp.

Worse however, were the moments of relative calm that suddenly gave way to anger, all the more confusing because she could not always attach the anger to the appropriate person or event. It seemed composed of bits, tiny stone chips of an ugly mosaic, irritation at James, as though he were standing next to her, for something as trivial as the fact that he had neglected to tell her the name of their insurance agent, which she could easily get herself, or for the infinitely more innocent yet utterly infuriating fact that he had left her for good. Or anger at Andy Gramble, whom James had played tennis with for years, for treating Olivia as though she were vaguely toxic when he'd met her on day at Peet's.

Olivia knew that there were more appropriate and more obvious targets for her anger, but, inexplicably, she most often found mute or helpless in the face of them, the media, the airline, the agencies with their acronyms, and the hecklers, disturbed and frightening hecklers on the telephone, at the memorial service, and even once, mind numbingly, on the television, when a woman asked for a man on the street to comment about the crash investigation, where he turned to the camera and accused Olivia and the NYPD of hiding critical information about the explosion.

* * *

Shortly after the interview with the Safety Board investigator, Elliot had suggested they go for a drive. They left the house and walked past the press, ignoring them. Elliot had given Olivia his sunglasses, and she had put them on. He guided her to the car. He held the door for her, and only after it had closed did it occur to her to ask where they were going.

"Saint Malachys" he said quickly

"Why?" she asked

"I think it's time for you to talk to a priest"

She was never Christian, nor Catholic, but Elliot was now taking her to a Catholic church. When she'd been young and her mother drunk nearly every night, she had went to her friend's houses to stay overnight, where often their parents would take all of them to church. Sitting alone in a darkened pew, she had been entranced by the seemingly moist stone walls, the intricately carved wooden cubicles with their maroon drapes where her friends and others would confess their sins, the captivatingly lurid paintings of the stations of the cross, which her best friend at the time back then, had tried to explain to Olivia unsuccessfully, and the tawdry red glass globes that held the flickering candles that her friend would pay for and then light on her way out.

In the early years of their marriage, James had been aggressively scornful of the Catholic Church. He had attended Holy Name when he was a kid, with the worst that parochial schools had to offer, including corporal punishment. I t was hard for Olivia to imagine schooling much worse than her own, which had been so spectacularly dull that when Olivia thought of her elementary school, what came to mind was the dust in the corridors. Lately, however, James thoughts against the church seemed to subside, and she wondered if he'd changed his mind. He never talked about it, she didn't have much to say.

They knocked on the large wooden door inside the church, nearby the exit. A tall man with dark, wiry hair, answered the doorbell.

"There's been a death." Elliot immediately said

The priest nodded calmly and gazed from Elliot to Olivia

"This is Olivia Benson" Elliot said "Her husband died in a plane crash"

It seemed to Olivia that the color left the priest's face for just a moment and returned.

"I'm Father Greg Anderson" he said to the both of them, extending his hand "Please come in"

They followed the the priest into a large room with leaded glass casement windows and seemingly thousands of books. Father Greg gestured for them to take seats around a small black fireplace grate. He looked to be in his late forties, and he seemed unusually muscular and fit under his dark shirt. She wondered idly as she sat there what priests did to keep in shape, if they were allowed to go to the gym and lift weights.

"I want to honor my husband" Olivia said when Father Greg had seated himself. He held a pad of paper and a pen in his lap.

Olivia searched for more explicit words but couldn't find them. Father Greg nodded slowly and appeared to understand. Indeed, Olivia had the distinct impression, through the interview, that the Catholic priest knew a great deal more about her needs and her immediate future than she herself did.

"I'm not Catholic" she explained "But my husband was, he was raised Catholic and educated in Catholic schools. I'm sorry he hadn't been to church in quite a long time."

There was a pause as the priest took this in. Olivia wondered why she had felt necessary to apologize for James.

"And what about yourself?" Father Greg asked

"I don't belong to anything, but I've been to church a few times when my friends took me, but otherwise I don't go."

"Are they're any family members to inform?"

Olivia hesitated and looked at Elliot.

"No" she said, uncomfortable aware that she was lying to a priest in a Catholic rectory

"Tell me about your husband."

"He died on the American Airlines plane that crashed. He was the pilot."

"I read about it in the paper."

"He was a good man, hardworking, loving. He was an only child, he grew up here, went to school at Holy Name, Airfare for six, liked to fish, go to the beach."

Those were the facts, she thought, but the real James, the James she knew and loved, wasn't in them.

"And you? How are you?" the priest asks

"Me?" Olivia asked "I feel like I've been beaten up."

The priest crosses his legs.

"And Captain O'Connell has been returned?"

"Returned?"

"The body."

"There isn't a body. My husband's body hasn't been found yet."

"We could wait for the body to be found."

"No, for my daughter's sake, for James' sake, we need to honor James now...And I doubt very much that there will be a body."

* * *

That night pacing sleeplessly in her kitchen, she began to wonder if she should tell Father Greg that there was in fact, a living relative of James. And wasn't it wrong of Olivia to not inform the woman herself that her son had died? She thought of an elderly woman sitting in a nursing home, a spitting image of James. It wasn't simply the discovery that James had lied to her that troubled Olivia, it was the continued existence of the woman herself, a woman that Olivia herself did not know quite what to do with. Impulsively, Olivia reached for the telephone on the wall.

When she had the correct number, she dialed the nursing home.

* * *

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	12. Descent

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* * *

"Forest Park" a young woman answered

"Oh, hello" Olivia said nervously, "I'd like to speak to Marge O'Connell"

"Wow, that's amazing" said the woman, who was eating, Olivia thought, chewing gum "This is Marge's third call today and she hasn't gotten called in, oh, six months, anyway."

The woman made a sucking sound, as if draining a drink with a straw.

"And in any event" the woman continued "Mrs. O'Connell can't come to the phone. She isn't well enough to leave her room and adding in addition to her other problems, she can't hear very good either, so a phone call is really out of the question."

"How is she?" Olivia asked

"About the same."

"Oh" Olivia said. She hesitated. "I was just trying to remember..." she added "when it was exactly that Mrs. O' Connell entered the nursing home."

There was a silence at the other end.

"Are you a relative?" the young woman asked warily

Olivia pondered the question, was she a relative? James, for reasons of his own, had chosen not to acknowledge that his mother was alive, and, so for all intents and purposes, she hadn't been-certainly to Olivia or to Julia. And Olivia wasn't at all sure to what end Marge O'Connell should be resurrected. Was it shame that had made James lie about his mother? Had he and his mother and an irreparable falling out?

"No, I'm not a relative," Olivia said "There's going to be a memorial service for her son, and I wanted her to be informed."

"Her son died?"

"Yes."

"What was his name?"

"James. James Dean O'Connell."

"Ok."

"He was killed in a plane crash." Olivia added

"Really? You mean that American Airlines crash?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God, wasn't that awful? What kind of man would commit suicide and take all those innocent people with him?"

Olivia was silent.

"Well this is the first I've heard of Mrs. O'Connell's son being on the plane" the woman said "You want me to try to tell her? I can't promise she'll understand."

"Yes" Olivia said calmly "I think you should try to tell her."

"Maybe I'd better talk to my supervisor first. Well listen, thanks for telling us, and I hope you didn't have any relatives yourself on that flight."

"I did, as a matter of fact."

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry."

"My husband was the pilot." Olivia said

* * *

In the days following her meeting with the priest, Father Greg and Olivia spoke often, and twice the priest drove to her house to visit. At the first meeting at the rectory, Elliot had stressed the need for security, and Father Greg had seemed not to think this was beyond his ken, although in this, as it happened, he was overconfident. Repeatedly, Olivia herself could get little farther than the word honor, though Father Greg did not demand much beyond that, and for that she was grateful. When she thought about Father Greg now, it was with a shudder of relief, for if it had not been for his firm hand, the memorial service would have been a fiasco beyond all proportions.

As it was, she and Julia had had to go to the church ahead of time to insure that they would have a clear passage through the streets, which later would become so clogged that nothing, not even an ambulance, could get through. Olivia wore black pants that fit her to the ankle, and a black long sleeve fitted shirt, with a black blazer. Elliot had worn a black suit, his family trailing behind him in black. Kathy had showed up as well, as she wanted to respect the dead. She may have thought the two were having an affair, but that doesn't mean she didn't like Olivia, or her family. She may be divorced now, but she still wanted to support Elliot and his partner. Afterwards, Olivia stood up from the pew and turned to face the back of the church and saw the rows upon rows of pilots and cops in dark suits, pilots from many airlines, most of whom had never met James, and then rows of cops from the one six, other precincts, her squad, even attorneys. She had then walked the length of the aisle, Elliot trailing next o her, his hand on her back, and Julia attached to Olivia's side. She had thought this was possibly the longest walk of her life. For as she walked, she had the distinct sense that when she reached the door of the church and slipped inside the black car that was waiting for her outside, her life with James truly would have ended.

The next day, in the newspapers, there was a photograph of Olivia emerging from Saint Malachi's, she she was surprised not only by the repetition of her image on the front page of several papers in the stand outside nearly every shop, but also by the image itself. Grief transformed a face, she saw, carved hallows and etched lines and loosened muscles, so that the face was almost unrecognizable. In the picture, clutching her daughter's hand for support, Olivia looked dazed and stricken and years older than she was.

She winced now to think of that picture, and of others, the most unfortunate being that of her and Elliot in her house, accused of having an affair and being corrupt. She could hear Elliot shouting at the press about the article. That they would even think of slaughtering a decorated officer of the NYPD.

After that day, she had stopped looking at newspapers or televisions. A visit to Elliot's that was only meant for a few days went beyond a week. Olivia could not enter her own home until it had been cleared of any artifacts that might send her spinning out the door. Only once, had the television been left on at Elliot's, where Olivia soon realized what was happening, she found herself looking at an animated rendition of the events following the explosion of the cockpit of American Airlines flight 270. According to the sequence, the cockpit broke away from the body of the plane, which itself disintegrated into smaller fragments during a second explosion. The animation showed the trajectory of the various parts as they fell into the ocean. According to the reporter, the descent would have taken approximately ninety seconds. Olivia could not move her eyes from the screen, her eyes followed the arc of the small animated cockpit to the water, where it made a little cartoon splash and sank.

Elliot had driven her to her home, where she left him in the kitchen and she headed upstairs to James' office. She was determined to begin the cleaning now. She turned from the window to the door and found Robert, where she was surprised that it wasn't Elliot.

"I called Elliot. He said you guys were here."

He had his hands in the pockets of his sports jacket. He looked different in jeans, his hair was windblown, and though he had just combed it with his fingers.

"I'm not here officially. I have a few days off. I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm glad to see you" she said, surprising herself

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, looking around at the open drawers and messy office.

"I'm trying to avoid having to clean all this up, I just can't bring myself to it. What are you doing here?"

"I have a few days off"

"And?"

He looked away before he looked back at her.

"James didn't spend his last night in the crew compartment" he said

In the room, the air went thick and heavy.

"Where was he?"

"Before the plane was set to land, two of the crew members went to rest, but we do know that James went into the compartment and made two phone calls through the call phone. One to you, and one to a restaurant for a reservation in London, England. Apparently, the Safety Board has known for some time. It will be on the news today. At noon."

Olivia sat down at the chair behind James' desk. She hadn't been home when James had called, and he'd left a message on the machine. _Hi hon_ , he'd said. _I'm going to land in a few hours. Did you call Alfred? Talk to you soon._

"I didn't want you to be taken by surprise." he said "I didn't want you to be alone."

Her mind felt pushed, compressed. It wasn't like James, she wanted to tell Robert. That wasn't him at all.

"It wasn't suicide" she felt compelled to say the least, she felt it absolutely

He reached over and put his hand on hers. She felt the instinct to pull away but he held onto her hand. She didn't want to ask, but she had to, and she could see that he was waiting for the question. She sat up slowly.

"The reservation was for how many." she asked as casually as she could

"For two."

She pressed her lips together. It didn't mean anything necessarily she thought. It could of easily been for James and a member of his crew, couldn't it? She saw Robert's gaze flicker to the window and back. Which member of the crew? she wondered

"How did you keep in touch with James when he was away?" Robert asked

"He called me" she said "It was easier that way, because my schedule was always the same. He'd call me through their phone as soon as he got to the crew compartment. If I had to reach him, I would leave a message on his voicemail. We had arranged it that way because I could never be sure when he was trying to get some sleep."

She thought about that arrangement. Had it been her idea or James'? They had done it for so many years, she could no longer remember when it had begun. And it had always seemed a logical system, too practical to question. Odd, she thought, how a fact, seen one way, was one thing. And then, seen from a different angle, was something else entirely. Or perhaps, not so odd.

"Obviously, we can't ask the crew." she said

"No."

Olivia stood up and walked over to the window. She had on an old sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with shot knees that she had been wearing for days. Even her socks weren't clean. She hadn't thought she would see anyone today. With grief, she thought, appearance was the first thing to go. Or was it dignity?

"I can't cry anymore." she said "That part is over."

"Olivia..."

"My God" she said

She put her hands over her eyes. It was impossible not to see, if only for an instant, the horror of the copilot as he watched his captain kill himself, the terrified bewilderment of the passenger in the cabin as they felt the sudden descent.

"When will they release the tape?" she asked "James' tape"

Robert shook his head. " I doubt very much that they ever will." he said "They don't have to, the transcripts are exempt from the Freedom of Information act. When tapes have been released, either what's on them isn't sensitive or else they've been heavily censored."

"So I won't ever have to listen to it?"

"I doubt."

"But then, how will we ever know what happened."

"Thirty separate agencies in three countries are working on this crash." Robert said "Believe me, the union hates the accusation of suicide more than anyone, even the hint of suicide. Every congressman in Washington is calling for stricter psychological testing of pilots, which from the union's point of view is a nightmare. The sooner the case gets resolved, the better."

* * *

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	13. Known

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* * *

They moved from room to room, dusting, vacuuming, washing tiles, hauling trash, making beds, putting laundry into hampers. Elliot worked at these tasks like a man she noticed, sloppy with the beds, good in the kitchen, washing the floor as though he were punishing it. With Elliot in her bedroom and in Julia's, potentially dangerous objects were defused, a shirt flung over a chair was just a shirt that Elliot tossed onto the floor with a bundle of laundry. Bed linens were bed linens, in need of washing like everything else. He picked up the discarded papers in James' office and, without examining them, as Olivia would have had to do, put them all into a drawer and closed it. In Julia's room, Olivia felt Elliot's scrutiny, sensing that he was afraid it would be in that room she would falter, but she surprised him and herself by being particularly speedy and efficient. By the time they were finished with cleaning, the milky swirls in the sky had given way to low, lead stained, clots.

"It's supposed to be pretty hot tonight, near ninety." Elliot said, spraying out the inside of the kitchen sink with the faucet hose

She opened the cupboard beneath the sink and put away the bathroom cleaner, the pin sol, the comet. She rinsed her hands in the spray from the hose and dried them on a dish towel.

"I'm hungry" she said, feeling the mild satisfaction that always came from having cleaning a house. Like having a bath.

"Good" he said "I've got lobster in the car."

She raised an eyebrow.

"From the store, I picked them up on the way here, I couldn't resist."

"I might not have liked lobster." she said

"I saw the picks and crackers in the silverware drawer"

"Observant" she said

"Occasionally"

But standing there, she suddenly had the sense that Elliot Stabler was observant. Always watching.

* * *

Elliot cooked the lobsters while Olivia set the table in the front room. Olivia opened the fridge and took out two bottles of beer. At five minutes before noon, Elliot had turned off all the ringers on the telephones. There was nothing urgent that it couldn't wait an hour or two, he had said, and she agreed.

In that spirit, she had covered the table near the windows in the front room with a red flowered cloth. Olivia had wished she had flowers. But what exactly was she celebrating? she wondered, feeling vaguely guilty. Having survived that last few week? She set utensils, bowls for shells, bread, melted butter, and a thick roll of paper towel on the table. Elliot walked into the front room from the kitchen bearing wet, slippery plates of lobsters. There were water spots in front of his shirt.

"I'm starving" he said, setting the plates down and sitting across from her

She examined the lobsters in front of her, and it was then that the swift, sharp shock of a memory once again assailed her. She looked up quickly and then out the window. She brought a hand to her mouth.

"What is it?" Elliot asked

She shook her head quickly, side to side. She held herself still, locked in an image, not daring to move either forward or backward for fear of the crevices. She breathed in deeply, let it breath out, and laid her arms on the table.

"I've just had a memory" she said

"What is it?"

"James and me"

"Here?"

She added.

"Doing this?"

It was like this, she wanted to say, but not like this. It was early summer, and the screens were on. Julia was with Margaret, and it was later in the day, around four o clock or five. The light was unique, she remembered, shimmery and green like sea glass. They had had champagne. What were they celebrating? She couldn't remember. Possibly nothing, possibly themselves. She had wanted to make love, she remembered, and so had he, but neither of them would sacrifice a hot boiled lobster, and so they had waited with a kind of delicious tension between them. She had sucked the legs of her lobster with exaggerated kisses, and James had laughed and said she was a tease, which she enjoyed. Being a tease. She seldom did that.

"I'm sorry" Elliot said "I should have known. I'll take these into the kitchen."

"No," she said quickly, stopping his hand as he reached for her plate "No, you couldn't have known, and anyway, my life is filled with these. Hundreds of little memories that catch me off guard. They're like mines in a field, waiting to detonate."

He moved his hand from under hers and laid it over her fingers. He held her hand the way a man might hold the hand of a woman friend, waiting for a small crisis to be over. His hand felt warm, because Olivia had suddenly gone cold. All her memories did this to her, they made the blood leave her hands and feet. Like fear did.

"You've been good to me" she said

Time passed. How much? She could no longer gauge seconds, minutes. She closed her eyes. The beer had made her slightly sleepy. She wanted to turn her hand over, to have him touch her palm, to slide his hand along her palm and up her wrist. She imagined she could feel the warmth of his hand feeling along the underside of her arm, past the elbow.

Her fingers under Elliot went slack, and she felt the tension drain from her body. It was erotic, but not, that loosening, that giving up. Her eyes seemed to have unfocused themselves, and she couldn't see Elliot or anything else properly, only a sense of light from the window. The light, diffuse and dimmed, created an aura of languid ease. And she thought that she ought to feel disturbed for thinking of Elliot and herself in that way, but a kind of leniency seemed to have descended upon them with the haze, and she felt merely vague and drifting. So much so that when Elliot, perhaps in an effort to bring her back, tightened the pressure on her hand, she felt jolted into the present moment.

"You're like a kind of priest" she said

He laughed "No. I'm not."

"I think that's how I've come to see you."

"Father Elliot" he said, smiling

And then she thought: Who was to know if this man's hand traveled up the inside of her arm? Who was to care? Weren't all of the rules now broken?

She could see that he was struggling to understand precisely where she was and why, but she couldn't help him, because she herself didn't know. He withdrew his hand, leaving hers uncovered. She felt exposed. She drank another bottle of beer. Between them, they ate all of the bread and lobsters.

Olivia looked down and took a sip from her beer.

"James told me to call Alfred and to have him come on Friday to fix the leaky shower. If James wasn't planning on coming back, he wouldn't have done that. Not in the way he did it, almost as an afterthought as he walked to the car. And he'd have been different with me. He'd have said goodbye differently. I know he would. There'd be one small thing that maybe wouldn't register at the time, but would after the fact. Something."

Elliot reached for his beer and pushed himself slightly from the table.

"Do you remember?" she asked "When the Safety Board questioned me, asking me if James had any close friends in England?"

"Yes"

She stared at the bowl of discarded shells.

"I've just had a thought." she said "I'll be right back."

As she climbed the stairs, she tried to recall if she had done that particular wash. She'd worn the jeans for two days and then thrown them into the hamper. But not her own hamper, she remembered, Julia's. And Olivia didn't wash Julia's things as she had not been there. Any laundry Julia had needed would be done by her.

She found the jeans at the bottom of the pile of soiled laundry, buried beneath clothes Elliot had tossed into the hamper just hours ago. She removed the handful of papers and recipes, which were slightly damp from a long buried towel. When she returned to the front room, Elliot was looking out the window. He watched her as she pushed her plate away and unfolded the papers.

"Look at this"she said, handing the lottery ticket to Elliot

"I found these papers wadded up in the pocket of James' jeans on the back of the bathroom door on the day he died. I didn't think much of them at the time and just stuck them in the pocket of my own jeans. But do you see that notation? M at A's and the numbers following it? What does it look like to you?

Elliot studied the number, and she could see from the flicker of his eyes that he understood what she was thinking.

"A U.K. phone number, you think." he said

"It's a London exchange, isn't it? The one eight one?"

"I think so."

"Isn't that the right number of digits?"

"I'm not sure."

"Let me see." she said

She put out her hand, and Elliot gave her back the ticket, though not without a certain reluctance.

"I'm curious" she said, defending herself "If it's a phone number, why is it written on this ticket? And this is recent, he must have bought the ticket the day before he left." She looked at the ticket's date. "Yes, he did." she said "July 3rd"

This was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, she thought as she walked up to the telephone in the kitchen. She picked up the receiver and tapped in the numbers. Almost immediately, she could hear a distinctly foreign ring, a sound that always put her in mind of old-fashioned Parisian telephones with spindly black cradles.

A voice answered at the other end, and Olivia, startled by the voice, unprepared for it, glanced quickly up at Elliot. She'd given no thought at all to what she wanted to say. A woman said hello again, this time in a slightly irritated voice. Not an old woman, not a girl.

Olivia searched for a name. She wanted to ask: _Did you ever know a man named James Dean O'Connell?_ but the question suddenly seemed absurd.

"I must have the wrong number." Olivia said quickly "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Who is this?" the woman asked, wary now.

Olivia couldn't bring herself to say her name.

There was the click of the phone being hung up in annoyance. Followed by silence.

Her hands shaking badly, Olivia replaced the receiver and sat down. She felt rattled much in the same way she once had as a girl, in junior high school, when she had called a boy she liked but hadn't been able to say her name.

"Let this go" Elliot said quietly from the table

Olivia rubbed her hands along the thighs of her jeans to stop their trembling

"Listen" she said "Can you find something out for me?"

"What?"

"Could you find the names of all the crew that James has ever flown with?"

"Why?" he asked

"I might be able to recognize a name if I saw it. Or put a name to a face I've once seen."

"If that's what you want" he said slowly

"It's hard to know what I want."

* * *

While Elliot went up to James' office to get the crew list, Olivia spread out all of the other papers from the crumpled wad and scanned them. She noticed particularly the receipt from the post office for a twenty two dollar purchase. Perhaps it was not for the stamps, she thought, peering at the receipt more closely. She opened up the piece of white lined paper and looked at the lines of poetry James had copied.

 _Who have sought more than is in rain or dew_

 _Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,_

 _Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,_

 _Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips;_

 _And wage God's battles in the long gray ships._

 _The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,_

 _To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;_

 _God's bell has claimed them by the little cry_

What did the poem mean? She glanced up at the sun beyond the windows. She unfolded the second piece of lined paper, the remember list. _Bergdorf Fedex Robe to arrive the 20th._

Odd, she thought, but a fedex package had not come on the twentieth. She was certain of that.

Rising from the table, she once again pondered the significance of the lines of poetry. They meant little to her now, but perhaps she could find the whole prom and that would suggest an idea to her. She walked over to the bookshelf, it was little more than a tall tier of planks stretching nearly to the ceiling. James had read books about airplanes and biography about men, sometimes a novel with a clever plot. She searched for an old anthology of poetry and found it on the bottom shelf.

She sat on the edge of the sofa. She propped the book on her lap and began to turn the pages. When nothing immediately revealed itself, she decided to start at the beginning intention of turning each page until she had found the lines she was looking for. But it quickly became clear to her that she wouldn't have to do that. The early poems were ancient. Using the language in the lines of the poem as a guide, she opened up the book about halfway through. There, the verse was by poets who wrote in a syntax similar to the lines she had in her hand. She began methodically to make her way through the pages when Elliot called her from James' office.

She put the book down and went up to James' office, where Elliot was seated at his desk. In his hands, he held the shiny paper of a fax, and she realized suddenly, as she saw him sitting in James' chair, that Elliot knew what was on the tape, of course he did, Robert had told him, and not her, to protect her.

"Tell me about the tape." she said

"This is a list of people James ever flew with at American Airlines."

"Thank you" she said, taking the list from him but not looking at it. She could see that he hadn't thought she would ask.

"Please." she said "Tell me what you know."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, leave me some reviews, I fly home tomorrow, and I don't get back home until midnight, so I don't think you can expect a chapter until Tuesday, but I hope you enjoyed this! Don't forget to review!**


	14. Battles

**_I'm back, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'd love reviews!_**

* * *

He crossed his arms and rolled the chair away from the desk, putting a little distance between them.

"I haven't heard the tape itself." he said "None of us has"

"No, I know that"

"I can only tell you what I've been told by Robert."

Olivia nods

"You really want to know?"

"Yes." she said, although she didn't know, she couldn't be sure. How could she be sure she wanted to hear it until she's heard it?

He stood abruptly and walked to the window, his back to Olivia. He spoke briskly, in a businesslike manner, as though to strip the words of emotional content.

"The flight is normal until the last forty five minutes. James doesn't say what's wrong, only that he will be right back. They-the people who have heard the tape, assume he went into the bathroom" He turned to look in her direction, though not quite at her.

She nodded.

"Two minutes later, First Officer Roger Martin announces that he's having troubled with his headset. He asks to borrow those of Trevor Sullivan, the engineer. Sullivan hands Martin his own headset, and says, _try these._ Martin tries the engineer's headset, find's Sullivan's works just fine, and says to him, _well it's not the plug, my headset must be bad."_

"Roger Martin's headphone's are bad" Olivia said

"Yes. So Martin's gives Sullivan his headset back, and then Sullivan says, here, wait a minute, maybe O'Connell has a spare. Apparently, Sullivan unfastens his seatbelt and reaches over into Jame's flight bag. You know where the flight bags are stowed?"

"Besides the pilot's?"

"On the outside bulkhead beside each pilot, yes, and Sullivan must then pull out something from Jame's flight bag that he doesn't recognize. Because he says, _what the hell?"_

"It's something he didn't expect."

"It seems that way."

"Not headphones."

"We don't know."

"And then?"

"And then James enters the cockpit. Sullivan says, _O'Connell is the a joke?"_

Elliot paused. He leaned against the windowsill, half sitting.

"There may have been a scuffle here" Elliot says "I've heard conflicting reports from Robert. But there it was, it was quick. Because Sullivan almost says immediately, _what the fuck?"_

"And?"

"And then he says, _Jesus Christ."_

"Who says Jesus Christ?"

"Sullivan."

"And?"

"And that's all."

"No one says anything else?"

"The tape ends."

She tilted her head toward the ceiling, contemplating what the end of the tape meant.

"He had a bomb in his flight bag." she said quietly "An armed bomb. That's why they think suicide."

Elliot stood. He put his hands in his pockets.

"Even one phrase different" Elliot said "and the whole tape could mean something else. Even with the words exactly as I've just said, the tape doesn't necessarily mean anything. You know that. Robert talked about that."

"Do they know for sure that James was in the cockpit at the time?"

"They can hear the latch of the cockpit door opening and closing. After which Sullivan addresses him specifically."

"What I don't understand," she said "is how James could possibly have something that dangerous in his flight bag."

"Actually" Elliot said, "that's the easy part." He turned to look at the snow. "It's harmless, absolutely harmless, everyone does it."

"Does what?"

"A lot of international pilot's do it, almost every flight attendant Robert had know, usually it's jewelry, gold, silver, sometimes gems."

She wasn't sure she understood. She thought of the jewelry James had received over the years, a thin gold bracelet on an anniversary, a gold S chain for a birthday, and then a watch for Christmas one year.

" A hundred times in and out of an airport, the crew get to know the security people, so they chat about families and wave you through, it's a courtesy. A couple times, the security would let me through, just with my badge, one in fifty asked for an i.d. They almost never looked in my brief case."

Olivia shook her head. "I had no idea" she said "James never said."

"Some of the pilots, I guess, they keep it to themselves. I guess if what you're bringing in is a present, it spoils the gift if you're wife knows that you smuggled in past customs. I don't know."

She put her hands in the pockets of her jeans, her shoulders hunched.

"Why doesn't James say anything on the tape?" Olivia asked "If he didn't know it was a bomb, maybe he'd have been just as surprised as Sullivan. He'd have said something. He'd have said, what are you talking about? He'd have exclaimed or shouted."

"Not necessarily."

"James lied about his mother."

"So?" Elliot says

"He didn't sleep in the crew compartment." she said

"It's not enough"

"Someone put a bomb on the plane." she said

"If it was a bomb, someone put it there. I'll grant you that."

"And James must of have known about it." she said "It was his flight bag."

"I won't grant you that."

"You don't really believe that James did this, do you?" Olivia said, with frustration, her back to Elliot

"You wanted to know about the tape." he said "And so I told you."

She unfolded the fax that she'd tucked under her arm. There were nine or ten pages, a lot of names, beginning with James' most recent crew. She looked at the list, Paul Kennedy, Sal Paige, Christopher Halter. Occasionally, a face would come up, a man or woman that James had introduced her to, either at a party, or some convention. Most of them she didn't know, or a majority of them lived in England, having half the crew be internationals. In that way, she thought, the lift of a pilot was an odd one, an almost anti social profession. Members of the crew James had flown with might live fifty miles away or across the ocean.

And then, on a list dated nearly twelve years ago, James having flown with United then, recognized an unusual name that rose right up from the paper and traveled through her bones with a charge.

 _Muire O'Brien_

Flight attendant.

Olivia spoke the name aloud

 _Muire O'Brien_

She was pretty sure it was a woman's name, she wondered if it was an Irish name, if she was pronouncing it correctly. Olivia reached down in front of her and opened the large drawer of James' desk. The junk-mail envelope with the name penciled in the corner wasn't there, but she could see it just as penciled in a corner wasn't there, but she could see the typed name on the list she held in her hands. _Muire 3:30._

Knowing instinctively that if she hesitated she'd be paralyzed with indecision, Olivia took the lottery ticket out of her pocket and laid it on James' desk. She lifted up the telephone and once again punched in the number written on it. A voice answered, the same as before.

"Hello" Olivia said quickly "Is Muire there?"

"Who?"

Olivia repeated the name.

"Oh, you mean Muire," the voice at the other end said, and Olivia heard the corrected pronunciation Meur-ah, with a bit of drumroll on the r. "No" the woman said

"Oh sorry" Olivia said, feeling a tremendous rush of relief. She wanted only to get off the phone now.

"Muire was here," the English voice said "but she's gone back to her own place. Are you a friend?"

Olivia couldn't answer her. She sat heavily in the chair.

"Who is this?" the woman in London asked

Olivia opened her mouth but couldn't say her name. She pressed the receiver to her chest.

 _M at A's_ , the lottery ticket in front of her read. _Muire, 3:30_ , the junk envelope had read.

Elliot suddenly took the receiver from her and placed it back on it's cradle.

"What made you ask for Muire?" he asked quietly "You've gone white."

"Just a guess" she said

Who was the woman called Muire? And what was James' connection to her? Might he have spent his last phone call with her, or even meant to spend his last night with her? Had James been having an affair? The questions pushed against her chest, threatening to suffocate her. She thought about all the jokes people routinely made about airline pilots and flight attendants. She had always dismissed the jokes, as if no real pilot would be so obvious.

"Elliot? Can you find one more thing about a particular name?" she asks "Where one lives?"

"If you're sure it's what you want." he said

She, herself being a cop could do it herself, but she couldn't bring herself to it.

"This is hell." she said

"Then leave it alone."

She thought about the possibility of leaving it alone.

"Would you be able to?" she asked

She had only remembered the name, as if had been mentioned at some point or another from a story, a dinner, something.

* * *

After a time, she found herself in the bathroom. She took off her clothes and turned on the shower, letting the water heat up until it was almost scalding. When she stepped in, she bent the back of her neck to the spray and stood in attitude for a long time. It was such a pleasurable sensation that she stood there until the hot-water tank had emptied itself and turned cold.

When she shut the water off, she could hear music. She adjusted the collar of a long gray bathrobe, a brushed cotton that fell to her ankles. A washed out face and hallowed eyes stared at her in the mirror. Brushing her hair as she walked, she followed the music downstairs and found Elliot sitting on the couch, listening to the piece. It was a piano playing, one of James' vinyl records. She knew the piece, Chopin. She lay down on one of the leather chairs, to the side of Elliot, her feet swung over one side and her back on the other side of the arm rest. James' had used to play the piano, as a memory of him playing at a party invaded her mind. The piano was never something she and James had shared.

" I had no idea you liked piano music" she said when the record finished.

He smirked and looked at her.

"You're a romantic, a closet romantic." she said smiling at him

* * *

Olivia had dozed off on the seat for a while and then somewhat groggily climbed up to the bedroom with the idea of slipping into her bed an taking a long nap. She look the book of poetry with her that had the poem that James had written down.

She lay on the bed on her stomach and began to turn the pages, halfheartedly looking at the lines. She read bits of pieces by different poets, and halfway through the book, the word battle suddenly caught her eye, and she realized that she had found the correct poem. But then almost immediately, before she could even read the lines through, she saw a faint notation along the inner margin.

 _M!_

Written in pencil, lightly, with an exclamation point. And there. Unmistakably there.

She sat up sharply and looked closely at the poem, reading it through. It was written by W.B. Yeats, and named the Rose of Battle. It seemed to be about war, that it does not carry peace, and that if they have felt the love of a woman, they should go home.

But what did it mean?

She let the book fall over the side of bed and onto the floor. She lay down again and rolled her face into the pillow. She felt as though she had traveled a thousand miles.

* * *

When she woke, she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was three-thirty in the morning. She twisted herself out of bed and staggered into the hallway. The door to the spare guest bedroom was shut. Elliot must have went in there and decided to sleep, she thought.

In the kitchen there were no signs of a meal ever having been made. Olivia made a pot of coffee and poured herself a cup. She thought about the note again.

 _M at A's._

 _Muire 3:30_

 _M!_

Drawing her robe tighter around herself, Olivia quickly climbed the stairs to James' office, it's dusty emptiness a surprise. She saw the paper that she had told Elliot to look for, the information regarding Muire O'Brien.

Muire O'Brien, she read, had left United in her fourth year as a flight attendant, and James' first year as a pilot. Trained by United in London, she had been a flight attendant with the airline four six years. There was an address, a phone number, and a date of birth. Muire O'Brien was now thirty seven.

Elliot had written a note beside the phone number. Tried this, it said. When I called, no one had ever heard of her. Beneath this information was a list of phone numbers. There were four M. O'Brien's listed in the London directory.

Olivia tried to formulate a question, a reasonable request, did the person answering the phone know of James O'Connell? If so, could Olivia ask a question or two? Was that such an unusual thing to ask?

She picked up the telephone and dialed the first number. A man answered, and he sounded as though she had woken him. She quickly calculated the time in London, nine forty five in the morning. She asked if Muire was there.

The man coughed as though he were a heavy smoker.

"Who is it you're wanting?"he asked, as if he hadn't heard the question correctly.

"Muire O'Brien."

"Nope, no Muire here."

"Sorry." Olivia said, hanging up the phone.

She crossed out the first number and tried the second. No response. She tried the third and a woman answered.

"Hello" Olivia said "I'm looking for Muire O'Brien."

The silence at the other end of the line was so complete that Olivia could hear the faint echo of someone else's transatlantic conversation.

"Hello?" Olivia tried again

The woman hung up. Olivia sat with the dead end of the receiver to her ear. She picked up the pencil to cross out the third number, but she hesitated. She called the fourth number instead, and a man answered, where he said there was no Muire there. She tried the third number again.

"Hello?" the same woman said

"I'm sorry to bother you" Olivia said quickly, before the woman could hang up "But I'm trying to locate a Muire O'Brien."

Eerily, there was a similar silence to the first. Something was on in the background. A dishwasher? Music? And then Olivia heard a small sound from the back of the woman's throat, like the beginning of a word that might be spoken. Followed by another silence, shorter this time.

"There's no Muire here." the voice said finally

Olivia thought there might have been a delay between her thoughts and her voice, because by the time she opened her mouth to speak, the line had gone dead.

* * *

When Elliot found her in the morning, she was sitting at the table in the front room. The sun had come up, and the glare in the windows caused Elliot to squint at her. In the glare, Olivia could see every pore and line on his face.

"It's bright in here." he said, turning his head away from the window

"Sometimes you need sunglasses in this room." she said "James used to wear them."

She watched as Elliot tucked in his shirt

"How'd you sleep?"

"Fine" she said "And you?"

"Great."

She could see that he had slept in his clothes. He had probably been too exhausted to get undressed, she thought. Adjusting to the light, Elliot seemed to see her face more clearly.

"What's wrong?" he asked

Olivia sat forward in the chair.

"I'm going to London" she said

He didn't hesitate. He didn't hesitate at all.

"I'm going with you" he said

* * *

 _ **Tell me what you think in a review!**_


	15. Rain

**Finally a new chapter! Sorry I've been super busy, I hope you enjoy this! Don't forget to review!**

* * *

At the gate, they stood apart from the others. Maybe because they were off duty cops, or maybe because she was the most publicized person on the news right now. Elliot had his overcoat with him, even though it was hitting eighty outside. London was apparently rainy for the week, but humid, high sixties. It was folded twice over a plastic seat. He had put his overnight bag on top of the coat, something a woman never would have done, Olivia thought, and he was reading the Wall Street Journal. Olivia held her coat over her arm and examined the plane in front of her, tethered to the gate by it's accordion umbilical. The plane was pretty, she thought, white with bright red and blue markings on it, the American Airlines logo written in bold script. The Boeing 777 was angled in such a way that she could see the cockpit, could see men in shirtsleeves, their faces in shadow, their arms moving along the instrument panel as they worked their way through the checklist. She wondered if she had ever met any of the crew before. Had they come to memorial service?

Her feet hurt, and she wanted to sit down. But to do so would have meant sandwiching herself between two overburdened passengers. In any event, there were only minutes left until they buried. Olivia had on a fitted black skirt, stopping mid calf and a black long sleeve knitted shirt, framing her nicely. She wore black boots with thick three inch heels to them. Black nylons covered her legs, keeping her to herself. Her her hair was in a loose twist, falling to frame her face. She thought she looked rather good, under the circumstances, certainly more together than she had in weeks. But she had lost weight in her face and knew she looked older than she had. Elliot wore black pants and a deep forest green dress shirt, almost black, with a black tie.

That morning, after she had told Elliot about her proposal trip to London, she had went up to Margaret's to tell her of her plan. Margaret had agreed to taking care of Julia. Olivia had told Julia when she was half asleep, and all she had said was "can I go back to bed now?"

As the widow of a pilot, Olivia was entitled to fly on a pass wherever American Airlines went, in the first class section whenever seats were available. She gestured to Elliot to take the window, and she stowed her luggage under the seat in front of her. Immediately she became aware of the stale air inside the plane, with it's distinctive artificial smell. The door to the cockpit was open, and Olivia could see the crew. The size of the cockpit never failed to startle her, many of them were smaller than the front seats of automobiles. She wondered how it was possible for the scenario suggested by the CVR on James' plane to have taken place. There seemed hardly room for three men to sit, let alone move around to have a scuffle.

From her vantage point, she could only see the inner third of the cockpit, bits of each pilot in shirtsleeves. It was impossibly, gazing at the tableau-the thickish arms, the confident gestures-not to imagine the man in the left hand seat as James. She pictured the shape of his shoulder, the whiteness of his inner wrist. She had never been a passenger on an airliner James was flying.

The captain rose and turned toward the cabin. His eyes found Olivia's and she understood that he meant to express his sympathy. He was an older man with a fringe of gray hair and light brown eyes. He seemed almost too kindly to be in charge. He was hopeless with the condolences, and she liked him for his inarticulateness. She thanked him and even managed, a slight smile. She said she was doing well as could be expected under the circumstances, which was all anyone ever wanted to hear. He asked her if she would be traveling on to County Clare with the other family members, and she answered, quickly and perhaps to emphatically, no. He seemed embarrassed for having asked. She turned then and introduced the captain to Elliot. The captain studied Elliot as if he might be someone he had met before. Then the man excused himself, went back up to the cockpit, and locked the door behind him. For his safety. For their safety.

The flight attendant collected the champagne glasses she'd brought around earlier, and Olivia saw to her surprise that she had drained hers. She couldn't remember drinking it, though she could taste it in her mouth. She looked at her watch, eight fourteen in the evening. It would be one fourteen am in London.

The plane lumbered on the runway. The pilot-the captain with the washed out eyes?-revved the engines for the takeoff. Her heart stalled for one prolonged beat, then kicked painfully inside her chest. Her vision narrowed to a dot, the way the picture used to do when one turned off the TV. Olivia held the armrests and closed her eyes. She bit her lower lip. A veil of protective mist dissipated, and she saw all that was possible: pieces of bulkhead flooring ripped from the cabin, a person, perhaps a child, harnessed into a seat, spinning through the open air, a fire beginning in a cargo hold and spreading into the cabin.

The plane gathered speed with unnatural momentum. The staggeringly heavy mass of the Boeing 777 would refuse to lift. She shut her eyes and began to pray the only prayer she could remember from her friend's trips to church...Our Father...

She had never before known fear on an airliner. Even on the bumpiest transatlantic flights. James had always been relaxed on a plane, as both a pilot and a passenger, and his calm had seemed to seep into Olivia through a kind of marital osmosis. But that protection was gone now. If she had believed herself safe in an airplane because James had, didn't it follow that she could die in a plane if he had? She felt then the shame and revulsion of knowing she was going to be sick. Elliot put his hand on hers.

When the plane was airborne, Elliot signaled the first flight attendant, who brought ice water and cold towels and a discreet paper bag. Olivia's body, unable to perceive relief in having made it aloft, rebelled. She vomited up the champagne, she was amazing at how intensely visceral the fear of one's own death was. She hadn't been this sick even when she'd learned that James had died.

As soon as the seat belt sign was turned off, Olivia rose unsteadily to use the lavatory. A flight attendant handed her a plastic envelope containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, a bar of soap, and a comb, and Olivia had realized such kits were kept on hand expressly for physically distraught passengers. Were they for first class passengers only, or did everyone get one?

In the tiny lavatory, Olivia washed her face. Her long sleeves were rolled up and soaked with sweat, where she tried to dry the skin of her neck and arms with paper towels. The plane lurched, and she banged her head against the cabinet. She brushed her teeth as best as she could and thought of all the times she'd felt condescending towards people who were afraid to fly.

When she returned, Elliot rose from his seat and took her arm.

"I can't explain." she said, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. "I suppose it was fear. I was certain the plane wouldn't get off the ground and that we'd be going so fast, we'd crash."

He gently squeezed her arm.

She pressed her seat back, and Elliot aligned his seat with hers. Almost reluctantly, it seemed, he took a magazine from the pocket in the seat in front of him. She fingered her wedding ring.

Over the intercom, the captain spoke with a resonant voice that was meant to be reassuring. Yet flight itself still felt wrong. The difficulty lay with the mind accommodating itself to the notion of the plane, with all its weight, defying gravity, staying aloft. She understood the aerodynamics of flight, could comprehend the laws of physics that made flight possible, but her heart, at the moment, would have none of it. Her heart knew the plane could fall out of the sky.

* * *

When she woke, it was dark both inside and outside of the plane. Overhead, a washed out movie played silently on a screen. They were flying toward morning. When James had died, he'd flown into light, as if he were outrunning darkness.

Through the windows, she saw clouds. Over where? she wondered. Newfoundland? The Atlantic? The Cliffs of Moher?

She wondered if the heart stopped from the concussion of the bomb, of it it stopped at the moment of certain knowledge that one would die, or if it stopped in reaction to the horror of falling through the sky, or if it did not stop until the body hit the water.

What was it like to watch the cockpit split away from the cabin, and then to feel yourself, still harnessed to your seat, falling through the sky, knowing that you would hit the water at terminal velocity, as surely James would have known if he were conscious? Did he cry out Olivia's name? Another woman's name? Was it Julia's name he called in the end? Or had James too, in the last desperate wail of his life, called out for his mother?

She hoped her husband had not had to cry out a name, that he had not had a second to know that he had died.

* * *

Beside her in the taxi, Elliot stretched his legs. She raised a hand to her hair and tried to refasten a wisp. Between them were two overnight bags, both remarkably small. She had packed hastily, without much thought. Her case contained a change of underwear and stockings, a different blouse. They entered London proper and began to pass through pleasant residential areas. The taxi pulled abruptly to a curb.

Through the rain, Olivia saw a street of white stucco town houses, an immaculate row of identical facades. The houses rose four stories and were graced with front window balconies. Delicate wrought iron fences bordered the sidewalk, and each house bore a lantern hanging from each door. Only the front doors spoke of individuality. Some were thick, wood paneled doors, some had small glass panes, others were painted dark green. The houses closest to the taxi were identified with discreet numbers on small brass plaques. The house they'd parked in front of read number 21.

Olivia sat back on the upholstered seat.

"Not yet" she said

"Do you want me to go instead?" he asked

She thought about the offer and smoothed her skirt. Like the steady hum of the engine, the driver seemed unperturbed by the wait.

"What would you do when you got there?" she asked

He shook his head, as if to say he hadn't given it any thought. Or that he would do what she asked him to.

"Why will you do?" he asked

Olivia felt light headed and thought she could no longer predict with any accuracy the actions and reactions of her body. The difficulty with not thinking about the immediate future, she decided, was that it left one prepared for its reality.

The drive to the hotel was brief, the block on which it stood eerily like the one they had just left. The hotel had taken over seven or eight town houses and had a discreet entrance. The upper floors were ringed with pristine white balustrades.

Elliot had booked two adjacent, but not adjoining rooms. He carried her bag to the door.

"We'll have lunch downstairs in the pub." he said. He checked his watch. "At noon?"

"Sure" she answered

"You don't have to do this" he said

* * *

Her room was small but perfectly adequate. The walls bore innocuous wallpaper, brass was sconces. There was a desk and a bed, a trouser press, an alcove where one could make a cup or coffee or tea. She showered, changed her underwear and shirt, brushed her hair. Looking into the mirror, she put her hands to her face. She could no longer deny that something was waiting for her here in this city. Sometimes, she thought courage was simply a matter of putting one foot in front of another and not stopping.

* * *

The pub was dark with wood paneled alcoves. Irish music played from overhead. Prints of horses, matted in dark green and framed in gold, were hung upon the walls. A half dozen men sat at the bar drinking large glasses of beer, and pairs of business men were seated in the alcoves. She spotted Elliot across the room, slouched comfortably against a banquette cushion. He looked contented, perhaps more than contented, he waved to her.

She crossed the room and approached him.

"I took the liberty of ordering you a drink." he said

She glanced at the ale. In front of Elliot was a glass of Guinness. She slipped in next to him. Her feet brushed against his, but it seemed rude to pull away.

Olivia studied the man in front of her. What did she know about him, except that he had been her partner for years? He seemed good at his job, and he was undeniably attractive. She wondered if accompanying her to London was somehow part of his job description.

"We might of come here for no good reason." she said "Elliot, I'm sorry, this is nuts, I know you must think I'm out of my mind. I'm really sorry to have dragged you into it."

"I love London" he said quickly, seemingly unwilling to dismiss their joint venture so quickly. "You need to eat something" he said

She studied the menu, laid it down on the polished but slightly sticky veneer of the table.

"You have a beautiful face" he said suddenly

She blushed. No one had said to her in a long time. She was embarrassed that she had colored, that he could see it mattered. She picked up the menu again and began to reexamine it. "I can't eat, Elliot. I can't."

"There's something I want to tell you" he said

She held her hand up. She didn't want him to say anything that would require her to respond.

"I'm sorry" he said, glancing away "You don't need this."

"I was thinking about how enjoyable this is" she said quietly

And she saw, with surprise, that he couldn't hide his disappointment at the tepid offering.

"I'm going to go now" she said

"I'll go with you."

"No." she said "I have to do this alone."

* * *

She went out onto the street blindly, moving now with a momentum she didn't dare to question. The taxi dropped her n front of the narrow townhouse she had seen little more than an hour before. She surveyed the street, studied a small pink lamp in a ground floor window. She paid the driver and was certain, as she stepped out onto the curb, that she had given the man too many coins.

The rain poured over the edges of her umbrella and soaked the back of her legs, spotting and then running down her stockings. There was a moment, as she stood on the steps in front of the imposing wooden door, when she thought, I don't have to do this. Though she understood in the same moment that it was knowing that she would positively do this that had allowed her the luxury of indecision.

She raised the heavy brass knocker and rapped on the door. She heard footsteps on an inner staircase, the short impatient cry of a child. The door opened abruptly, as though the person behind it were expecting a delivery.

It was a woman, a tall, angular woman with dark hair that fell along her collarbone. The woman was younger than her, maybe thirty five. She held a small child on her hip, a child so astonishing that it was all Olivia could do not to cry out.

Olivia began to tremble inside her coat. She held the umbrella at an unnatural angle. The woman with the child looked surprised, and for a moment, quizzical. And then she did not seem surprised at all.

"I've been imagining this moment for years" the woman said

* * *

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I have a surprise! I am making a fan video of bensler and it will be up within the next few chapters! Don't forget to review!**


	16. Flashes

**And here it is, what you've been waiting for! Anyways, _I HAVE A SURPRISE! I CREATED A FAN VIDEO FOR BENSLER, HERE IS A LINK AND ON MY PROFILE!_**

To get to this link, paste this after typing in you(tube) ...it won't let me type the entire thing correctly btw.

watch?v=MUB2h485weo

 _ **tell me what you think in the reviews or comment section on youtube!**_

* * *

The features of the woman impressed themselves upon Olivia's consciousness, like acid eating away at a photographic plate. The bright blue eyes, the thick, dark lashes. The narrow jeans, long legged. The ivory flats, well worn, like slippers. The pink shirt, sleeves rolled. A thousand questions competed for Olivia's attention. When? For how long? How was it done? Why?

The baby in the woman's arms was a boy. A boy with green eyes. The hues were slightly different, though the difference was not as pronounced at it had been in his father's eyes.

The envelope of time ripped open, and Olivia dropped in. She struggled not to have to lean against the door with the shock of the woman, of the boy's face.

"Come in."

The invitation broke the long note of silence that had passed between the two women. Although it was not a invitation at all, not in the way such offers are normally made, with a smile or a step backward into a hallway to allow entry. It was, rather, a statement, simple and without inflection, as though the woman had said instead, neither of us have a choice now.

And the instinct was, or course, to enter the house, to get out the wet. To sit down.

Olivia lowered the umbrella and collapsed it as she stepped over the doorsill. The woman inside the house held the door with one hand, the baby in the other arm. The baby, perhaps having noted the silence, looked at the stranger with intense curiosity. A child in the hallway had stopped her playing to play attention.

Olivia allowed the umbrella to drip onto the polished floor. In the several seconds the two women stood in the entryway, Olivia noticed the way the woman's hair swayed along her collarbones. Expertly cut, as Olivia's was not. Her's was unevenly curly, but her twist that held her hair hid that from the woman in front of her. She touched her own hair and regretted doing so.

It was hot in the hallway, excessively hot and airless. Olivia could feel the perspiration trickling inside her blouse, which was under her wool coat, making her more hot.

"You're Muire O'Brien," Olivia said

The baby in Muire O'Brien's arms, despite the different sex, despite the slightly lighter hair color, was precisely the baby that Julia had been at that age, five months old, Olivia guessed. The realization created dissonance, a screeching in her ears, as though this woman she had never met were holding Olivia's child.

James had had a son.

The dark haired woman turned and left the hallway for a sitting room, leaving Olivia to follow. The child in the hallway, a beautiful girl with enlarged pupils and a cupid mouth, picked up a handful of construction blocks, pressed them to her chest, and, eyeing Olivia the entire time, edged along the wall and entered the sitting room, moving closer to her mother's legs. The girl looked like her mother, whereas the boy, the son, resembled the father.

Olivia put down the umbrella in a corner and walked from the entry way to the sitting room. Muire O'Brien stood with her back to the fireplace, waiting for her, although there had been no invitation to sit down, wouldn't be.

The room had high ceilings and had been painted a lemon yellow. Ornately carved moldings were shiny with glossy white paint. At the front, the curved windows had long gauzy curtains on French rods. Several low chairs of wrought iron, cushioned with oversized white pillows, had been placed around a carved wooden cocktail table, reminding Olivia of Arab rooms. Over the mantle, behind the woman's head, was a massive gold mirror, which reflected Olivia's image in the doorway, so that, in essence, Olivia and Muire O'Brien stood in the same frame. On the mantle was a photograph in marquetry, a pinkish gold case, a bronze figure. On either side of the bow window were tall bookcases. A carpet of muted grays and greens lay underfoot. The effect was of light and air, despite the grand architecture of the house, despite the dark of the weather.

Olivia had to sit. She put a hand on a wooden chair just inside the doorway. She sat heavily, as though her legs would suddenly give out. She felt old, older than the woman in front of her, who was nearly her own age. It was the baby, Olivia thought, that somehow testified to the newness of love, certainly to the relative proximity of sex. Or the jeans in contrast to Olivia's dark outfit. Or the way Olivia found herself sitting.

Beneath her coat, her right leg spasmed, as though she had just climbed a mountain. The baby began to fret, utter small impatient cries. Muire O'Brien bent to pick up a rubber pacifier from the cocktail table, put the nipple end in her own mouth, suck it several times, and then put it in the baby's mouth. The boy wore navy corduroy overalls and a striped t-shirt. The dark haired woman had full, even lips and wore no lipstick.

Moving her eyes away from the woman with the baby, Olivia caught sight of the photograph on the mantle. When the picture came into focus, she started, nearly rose from her seat. The photograph was of James, she could see that even across the room. Unmistakably now from where she sat. Cradling an infant, a newborn. His other hand ruffling the deep curls of another child, the girl was in the room with them. In the picture, the girl had a solemn face. The trio appeared to on a beach. James was smiling broadly.

Visceral evidence of another life. Although Olivia had no proof.

"You're wearing a ring." Olivia said almost involuntarily

Muire fingered the gold bang with her thumb.

"You're married?" Olivia asked, disbelieving.

"I was"

Olivia was confused for a moment, until she understood the meaning of past tense.

Muire shifted the baby to her other hip.

"When?"

"Four and a half year's ago."

The woman hardly moved her mouth when she spoke. The consonants and vowels rolled from her tongue with a distinctive melodic lilt. Irish, then.

"We were married in the Catholic Church." Muire volunteered.

Olivia felt herself backing away from this information, as if from a blow.

"And you knew?..." she asked

"About you? Yes of course."

As though that were understood. That the dark haired woman had known everything. Whereas Olivia did not.

Olivia shook her arms free of her coat. The flat was overheated, and Olivia was sweating profusely. She could feel the perspiration under her hair, at the back of her neck.

"What's his name?" Olivia asked, meaning the baby. She was astonished at her own politeness even as she asked the question.

"Aedan." Muire said "For my brother."

The woman bent her head suddenly, and kissed the baby's head.

"How old is he?" Olivia asked

"Five months. Today."

And Olivia thought at once, as who would not, that James might have been there, in that flat, to share the small milestone.

The baby, pacified, appeared now to be falling asleep. Despite the revelations of the last several minutes, despite the unnatural relationship between herself and the baby, despite the very fact of the child's existence at all, Olivia felt an urge, akin to sexual, to hold the infant to her breast, to that hallow space that wants always to embrace a small child. The resemblance to Julia at five months is uncanny. It might actually be Julia. Olivia closed her eyes.

"Are you alright?" Muire asked from across the room

Olivia opened her eyes, wiped her forehead with the back of her palm.

"I have thought" Muire began again "I have wondered if you would come. When you called, I was sure that you knew. I was sure when he died it would come out."

"I didn't know," Olivia said "Not really. Not until I saw the baby. Just now."

Or had she known? she wondered. Had she known from the moment she'd heard the transatlantic silence?

There were shallow wrinkles about the eyes of the dark haired woman, the suggestion of parentheses that would one day form at either side of he mouth. The baby woke suddenly and began to wail in an uninhibited, lust way that had once been familiar to Olivia. Muire tried to comfort the child, bringing him to her shoulder, patting his back. But nothing seemed to work.

"Let me put him down" Muire said over the cries

When she left the room, the girl trailed after her, not willing to be left alone with a stranger.

James had been married in a Catholic church. The dark haired woman had known that he was already married.

Muire had known, had imagined this day, and Olivia had not. Muire returned and paced her way back to the cocktail table, and opened a wooden box on the table. She took out a cigarette, which she lit with a old time metal lighter next to the box.

James wouldn't tolerate being in the same room with a smoker, he had said.

"You want to know how it happened." Muire said, guessing Olivia's thoughts.

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 _ **There is way more, and Bensler will come soon, I really am glad you have been patient! Thoughts and reviews would be great! **_

**_DONT forget to check out my fan video and tell me your thoughts in the reviews or comment section on youtube!_**

To get to this link, paste this after typing in you(tube) ...it won't let me type the entire thing correctly btw.

watch?v=MUB2h485weo


	17. Things

**_Im back, sorry for such a long wait, I had things to do, and I cam back from a bonfire, but I wanted to write, so here you go. What do you think of James? For me, I think he still loved Olivia, but he kept Julia important to home, and he loved Olivia, never stopped, but he did betray her, so I'm not sure. Anyways, enjoy and review!_**

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Olivia had another unexpected memory then, a picture really, that James had taken. Olivia was sleeping facedown in a quilted bathrobe on an unmade bed, her arms tucked under hair. James, who had been holding the five month old baby Julia, had placed the sleeping baby, also facedown, on the hump made by Olivia's backside and her lower back. Olivia and Julia together had taken a nap, and James, moved by the sight of the pother and her papoose, had snapped the photograph.

Muire leaned against a cushion, draped one arm along its back. She crossed her legs. Olivia thought she might be six foot tall, nearly as tall as James, who'd been six two. She herself was five eight. Olivia tried to imagine what her body looked like unclothed, how she and James might look together.

But her mind protested and rebelled, and the pictures refused to form. Just as the image of James' body as it may have lain in the ocean had at first refused to form. The pictures would come later, Olivia knew, when she least wanted them.

"Yes" Olivia said

Muire took a pull on her cigarette, leaned forward, and flicked an ash.

"I flew with him twelve years ago, when I worked with United as a flight attendant."

"I know"

"We fell in love" the woman said simply

"But we only got together about five and a half years ago. We would go out to lunch when he came to London before we got married. I could say we were both swept off our feet. We were together for a month that first time. We had..." The woman hesitated, perhaps from delicacy, perhaps trying to find better words. "We had an affair" she said finally "James was torn, he said he wouldn't leave Julia. He could never do that to his daughter."

The name Julia produced a fission in the air, a tension that quivered between the two women. Muire O'Brien had spoken the name too easily, as if she'd known the girl.

Olivia thought: He wouldn't leave his daughter, but he could betray his wife.

"When was this exactly?

"Five and a half years ago, near January"

What had she been doing herself January of five and a half years ago? Olivia wondered

The woman had delicate white skin, an almost flawless complexion. The complexion of someone who spent little time outdoors. Though she might have been a runner.

"You knew about me," Olivia repeated. Her voice didn't seem her own, it was too slow and tentative, as if she had been drugged.

"I knew about you from the very beginning." Muire said "James and I did not have secrets"

The greater intimacy then, Olivia thought. An intentional knife wound.

Aware of the intense scrutiny of the woman in front of her, a woman who may very well have known James better than she did, Olivia prayed her legs would not betray her. She walked across the room to the mantle.

She took down the picture. James had on a shirt Olivia had never seen before, a faded black polo shirt. He cradled the tiny newborn. The girl, the one Olivia had just seen playing with the construction blocks, had James' hair and brow, though not his eyes.

"What's her name?"

"Siobhan"

James' fingers were deep in the girl's hair. Had James been the same with Siobhan as he had been with Julia?

Olivia briefly closed her eyes. The hurt itself, she thought, was nearly intolerable. But the hurt to Julia was obscene. One could see, how could anyone fail to observe? That the girl in the photograph was extraordinarily beautiful. A beguiling face, with dark eyes and long lashes, red lips. A veritable Snow White. Had memories Julia held sacred been repeated, relived, with another child?

"How could you?" Olivia cried, spinning, and she might be speaking to James as well

Her fingers, slippery from perspiration, lost hold of the frame. It slid out of her hands, crashed against the end table. She hadn't meant for that to happen, and felt a small breakage as an exposure. The woman in the chair flinched slightly, though she did not turn her head to inspect the damage. It was an unanswerable question. Though the woman wanted to answer it.

"I loved him" Muire said. "We were in love"

As if that were enough.

Olivia watched as Muire put out her cigarette, how cool she was, Olivia thought. Even cold.

"There are things I can't talk about." Muire said

You bitch, Olivia thought, a bubble of anger popping to surface. She tried to calm herself down. It was hard to imagine the woman in the chair, a flight attendant uniform with little wings on the lapel. Smiling at passengers as they entered a plane.

What were the things Muire O'Brien couldn't talk about?

She put her hands on the mantle, leaned her head forward. She breathed in deeply to calm herself, a distant rage made a sound like white noise in her ears.

"I was willing to do whatever it took" Muire Boland said. "I tried once to throw him out, but I couldn't."

She looked at the woman, black hair, pale skin, dark lashes and bright blue eyes, combined with the height and the long arms, she was undeniably attractive.

"How did you do it?" Olivia asked "I mean, how did it work?"

Muire O'Brien raised her chin. "We had so very little time together" she said "We did whatever we could. I'd pick him up at a prearranged spot near the airport and bring him here. Sometimes, we only had the night, at other times..."

Again, she hesitated. "James would sometimes bid schedules in reverse."

Olivia heard the language of the pilot's wife.

"I don't understand" Olivia said quickly, thought she thought, sickly, that she did.

"Occasionally, he would be able to arrange it so that his home base was London. But of course, that was risky."

Olivia could remember months James had seemed to have a terrible schedule, five days on, two days off, only the overnight was home.

"As you know, he didn't always get London." Muire continued "He sometimes had the Frankfurt airport, and I took a flat in Frankfurt during those times."

"He paid for this?" Olivia asked suddenly, thinking he took money from me, from Julia.

"This is mine." Muire said, gesturing to the rooms. "I inherited it from an aunt, I could sell it and move to the suburbs but the thought of moving to the suburbs is rather chilling."

"He gave you money?" Olivia persisted

Muire looked away, as if sharing with Olivia, for a moment the particular treachery of taking money from one family to give to another.

"Occasionally." she said "I have some money of my own."

Olivia speculated on the intensity of love that constant separation might engender. The intensity that being furtive and secret would naturally create. She brought her hand to her mouth, pressed her lips to her knuckles. Had her own love for James not been strong enough? Could she say that she had still been in love with her husband when he died? Had she taken him for granted? Worse, had James ever suggested to Muire O'Brien that Olivia hadn't loved him enough? She winced inwardly to think of that possibility. She drew a long breath and tried to sit up straighter.

"Where are you from?" Olivia asked when she trusted her voice

"Galway."

Olivia looked away.

"But you met here." Olivia said "You met James in London"

"We met in the air"

Olivia glanced down at the carpet, imagining that airborne meeting

"Where are you staying?" Muire asked

Olivia looked at the woman and blinked. She could not recall the name of her hotel. Muire reached forward and took another cigarette from the box.

"The Kensington Exeter" Olivia said, remembering.

"If it makes you feel any better" Muire said "I'm quite certain there was never anyone else."

It did not make her feel any better.

"How would you know?" Olivia asked

The outside light grew dimmer in the flat. Muire turned a lamp on and put a hand to the back of her neck

"How did you find out?" Muire asked "Discover us?"

Us, Olivia heard.

She didn't want to answer the question, the search for clues seemed tawdry now.

"What happened to James' plane?" Olivia asked instead

Muire shook her head, her silky hair swinging.

"I don't know, the suggestion of suicide is outrageous."

She looked down and the smoke curled through her hair.

"I envy you having had a service." Muire said looking up "A priest, I would of liked to be there."

My God, Olivia thought.

"I saw your photograph" Muire said "In the papers. The FBI is assembling the case?"

"So I'm told"

"Do they talk to you?"

"No, did they tell you?"

"No." Muire said "You know James would never do this."

"Of course I know that" Olivia said

"You came here just for this?" Muire asked, picking up a stray sliver of tobacco from her lower lip.

"Isn't that enough?" Olivia asked

Muire exhaled a long plume of smoke. "I meant will you be traveling on to County Clare?"

"No." said Olivia "Have you been?"

" I couldn't go." she said

There was something more, Olivia could feel it.

"What is it?" Olivia asked

The woman rubbed her head. "Nothing" she said shaking her head lightly "We had an affair" she added, as if to explain what she had been thinking. "We had an affair, I became pregnant and took a leave from the airline. James wanted to be married. It wasn't important to me. To be married. He wanted to be married in the Catholic Church."

"He never went to church"

"He was devout" Muire said and looked steadily at Olivia

"Then he was two different people" Olivia said

It was one thing to be married in a Catholic Church because a lover wanted it, quite another to be devout oneself. Olivia intertwined her fingers, trying to steady them.

"He went to mass whenever he could" Muire said

In New York, James never even entered a church. How could a man be two such different people?

" I have to use the bathroom" Olivia said, standing up abruptly, the way a drunk might do.

"It's just upstairs" Muire said

She led Olivia out of the sitting room and through the hallway. She stood at the bottom of the steps, gesturing with her hand. Olivia had to pass in front of her, and their bodies almost touched. Olivia felt diminished by the woman's height.

The bathroom was claustrophobic and made Olivia's heart race. She glanced into the mirror and saw that her face had taken on a hectic flush and was mottled. She pulled her hair from it's twist and shook it loose. She sat down on the toilet lid. A floral print on the walls made her dizzy.

Five years. James and Muire O'Brien had been married in a church five years ago, the same time she and James had been married, but not in a church. Perhaps guests had gone to the wedding. Had any of them known the truth? Had James hesitated when he said his vows? Her questions turned to images. James in a suit, kneeling in front of a priest, James opening a car door, slipping into the passenger seat, a small girl with dark curls hugging James' knees. In the distance a telephone rang.

She stood up quickly, her eyes skittering around the tiny powder room. She splashed water on her face, dried it with an embroidered towel. She opened the bathroom door and saw across the hallway a queen sized bed. From downstairs she could hear Muire talking on the telephone, her words rising in her foreign lilt. If James had not been dead, she may have not had the right to enter the bedroom, but now nothing could matter. This house was hers to see. Knowledge of this house was owed to her. After all, Muire O'Brien had known all about her, hadn't she?

She walked through the doorway and thought of the effort she had made to please James. She accommodations she had made for him. When she confronted James with a possible affair, he had denied it, made it seem beneath his consideration, beneath hers. All of this she had thought to be normal, within the bounds of a normal marriage. She'd told Robert and Elliot they had had a good marriage. She felt foolish, exposed for a fool, and she wondered if she didn't mind that most of all.

This would be the master bedroom. She looked at the messy side of the bed, where teacups and a container of yogurt on the nightstand stood, and ashtrays overflowing with butts. There were bits of lacy underwear on the comforter. The other side of the bed, still intact, had been James'. She could see this in the nightstand next to it, a white noise machine, a halogen lamp, and a book about the Vietnam War. Had James read other books here that he hadn't at home? Had he looked different in this house than he had at home? Looked older or younger?

Home, she thought. Now there was an interesting concept. She walked to the mirror fronted wardrobe and opened the doors. The clothes were Muire's, not James'. Cotton shirts, blouses. Her hand felt, in her search, what she thought was a silk blouse. Parting the hangers, she discovered it was not a blouse, but a robe, an ankle length silk robe with tasseled sash. An exceptional garment of dip sapphire. Trembling slightly, she lifted the neck of the robe from the hanger and looked at the label.

Bergdorf Goodman.

She had known it would be.

She moved back to the bathroom, where a flannel robe was on the hook behind the door. James had not worn robes at home. There was a bottle of English cologne that had not been familiar to her.

She had seen enough. She wanted to get out of the house now. Olivia left the bedroom and walked past the door to the girl's room. Siobhan lay on the bed on her stomach, her chin in her hands, the same remarkably solemn expression on her face. She was so absorbed in her program that at first she did not notice the stranger in the doorway.

"Hello" Olivia said

The girl glanced in her direction. Then turned to her side to contemplate this new person.

"What are you watching?" Olivia asked

"Danger mouse"

"I've seen that. They used to show it in America. My daughter used to like Road Runner. Until she got a bit bigger, she's your age."

"What's her name?" The girl sat up, more interested in the stranger

"Julia"

Siobhan considered the name.

Olivia took a step forward and glanced around the room. She noted the paddington bear, almost identical to one Julia had had. A photograph of James in a baseball cap and white t-shirt hung on the wall. A child's drawing on an adult man and a little girl with dark curls, which might have been done recently. A small white desk was in the color, magic marker was scribbled onto the desk, where blue sky had been drawn off a piece of white paper. What had the girl been told? Did she know her daddy was dead?

"You talk funny" Siobhan said

" I do?"

The girl had a British accent, no Irish in it, no American.

"You talk like my daddy" the girl said

Olivia smiles, the thought of James comes to her, when she had thought of him as faithful, she didn't know if she could still love him.

"Was your daddy here at Christmas? Sometimes daddies work at Christmas" Olivia asked

"He was here, I made him a bookmark. It had a picture of me and daddy on it, I wanted it back, so he said we could share it. Do you want to see it?"

"Yes, I do." Olivia replied

The girl looked under the bed for the shared treasure. She brought up a picture book Olivia did not recognize. The bookmark inside was a strip of colored paper that had been laminated. The photograph was of James with Siobhan on his lap, he was craning his neck to see her face.

Olivia heard footsteps upstairs. Muire stood protectively in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Do you have to go?" Siobhan asked

"I'm afraid I must" Olivia said

Siobhan watched her leave, and Muire moved aside for Olivia to pass. Olivia reached for her umbrella and wool coat when she got downstairs.

"Siobhan mentioned that James was here for Christmas" she said, slipping her arms into her coat

"We celebrate early." Muire said "We had to"

"Does your daughter know about James?"

"She knows" Muire said "but I'm not sure she understands. Her father is away so often. I think this seems like just another trip to her"

 _Her father._

"And James' mother, did Siobhan know about her grandmother?"

Olivia was silent. Shaken by her own question as much as its answer.

"But, as you know, his mother had Alzheimers" Muire added "and Siobhan has never been able to really talk to her"

"Yes, I know" Olivia lied

If James hadn't died, she wondered, would he have been in this house right now? Would Olivia ever have discovered the other family?

The two women stood on the wooden floor. Olivia glanced at the walls, the ceiling, the woman in front of her. She wanted to take in the whole of the house, to remember everything she had seen. She knew she would never be back.

She thought about the impossibility of never knowing another person. About the fragility of the constructs people make. A marriage, for example. A family.

"I'm not sorry for having had him" Muire said finally "I'm just sorry for having hurt you."

Olivia wouldn't say goodbye, it didn't seem necessary. Although there was something Olivia wanted to know, despite her pride, had to ask.

"The robe" she said "The blue silk robe, in your closet."

Olivia had a quick intake of breath, but the face gave nothing away.

"It came after he died." Muire said "It was a birthday present."

Olivia nodded, understanding the reason for it now.

"You should go home" Muire said as Olivia stepped out into the rain, and Olivia thought it an odd and presumptuous command.

"It was worse for me" Muire said and Olivia turned, drawn by the slightly plaintive note, a rent in the cool facade.

"I knew about you." Muire O'Brien said "You never had to know about me."

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	18. Dreaming

_**Hey guys! I'm sorry for such a late update, school starts next week, and I'm insanely busy but I love writing, so enjoy! Don't forget to review!**_

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It was possible she was crying. Later, she would not be able to say when it had started. The rain soaked her hair, glued it to her head. It rand down her neck, her back, the front of her blouse. She was too exhausted to pull her collar up or to tighten her coat around herself. She had suddenly realized she hadn't taken her umbrella with her, she'd reached for it, but she hadn't taken it with her. Passerby raised their umbrellas, glanced at her and then at each other. She breathed through her open mouth.

She had no destination, no idea where she was walking. Coherent thoughts refused to from or to take shape. She remembered the name of her hotel, but she did not want to go there, did not want to be inside with other people. Did not want to be alone in a room.

She stepped off the cut and, by habit, looked the wrong way. A taxi squealed. Olivia stood still, expecting the driver to lean out the window and yell at her. Instead, he waited patiently for her to cross the road. She hadn't been used to the UK driving on the opposite side of the road.

She knew that she wasn't well and grew nervous, afraid that she might inadvertently walk into a construction hole, might step off the curb again, might be hit by a red bus. A headache claimed her, and she slipped into a telephone booth to put herself momentarily into a safe box. She wondered if she had any advil on her.

A man stood impatiently outside the phone box, then tapped on the glass. He needed to use the phone, he mouthed. She walked out into the rain again and walked along the busy street that seemed as if it might on on for ever. Heads bent against the rain, and people passed her. She thought about finding a department store, buying an umbrella, possibly a rain coat.

At the corner, she saw two men in overcoats laughing. They held black umbrellas and brown leather briefcases. They went inside the doorway. There was a glow behind the door, frosted glass, the sound of communal laughter, it was dark already, night now, and it might be safer to go inside.

Inside the pub, the scent of wet wool rose to her nostrils. She liked the warmth of the interior space. The glasses of the man just in front of her steamed, and he laughed with him companion. A man behind the bar handed her a towel. Someone else had used it before her, it was damp and limp and smelled of aftershave. She toweled her hair as she would do after a shower, and she saw that men were staring at her. They have pints of ale in front of them, which made her thirsty. The men parted slowly, and gave her a stool.

When the bartender came back, he took the towel, and she pointed to a tap. The ale was bronze colored when it came. Light sparkled from polished surfaces, and men had cigarettes. She was thirsty and drank the ale like water. She glanced down, saw that her blouse was nearly transparent with the soaking and drew her coat around her for modesty. The bartender turned in her direction and raised an eyebrow, she nodded in answer and he gave her another glass of ale.

She needed to use the bathroom, but she didn't want to give up her stool. She thought she should order a third glass of beer just in case she lost her place and wouldn't be able to get another. The bartender ignored her raised hand, but women across the bar noticed. They spoke to each other as they stared at her. The bartender, acknowledging her finally seemed slightly less friendly than he had been before. When he finally asked her if she'd like a third drink, she shook her head and stood up, catching her coat on the stool. She lifted the wool of the vinyl seat, and she tried to walk with a steady gait, moving through the crowd of men and women standing with their drinks.

She followed a sign for toilets and it seemed unnecessarily direct. It was relief just to be alone in the stall. Her stomach threatened momentarily to revolt, but she held her ground, withstood the queasiness. She washed her hands in a grimy sink and looked in the mirror. The woman reflected there could not be her, she decided. The hair was too dark, too flat against the head. Half moons of mascara lay beneath her eyes, a ghoulish makeup. The eyes themselves were pink rimmed, the eyeballs veined. The lips were bloodless, though the face flushed. A homeless woman, she thought.

She dried her hands on a towel, opened the door. She passed a phone on the wall and felt a powerful urge to call Elliot. The urge was physical, she felt it in the center of her body. She tried to follow the instructions printed on a placard next to the telephone, but gave up after several times. She asked an older man in a waxed jacket who was on his way to the men's room to help her. When he had a connection, he handed her back the phone and looked at her blouse. He walked into the men's room and too late, she remembered that she hadn't thanked him.

The phone rang six or seven times and Olivia was dying to hear Elliot's voice, the longest man that had been in her life and her best friend. It rang another time but she refused to hang up.

"Hello?"

The voice was breathless, as though he had been lifting weights or running.

"Elliot!" Olivia cried, spilling relief "Thank God you're here"

"Olivia? What's the matter? Are you okay?"

Olivia composed herself, she didn't want to frighten him. "How are you?" she asked

"Um, I'm okay." Olivia's voice still wary, tentative.

Olivia tried for a cheerier tone. "I'm at a bar a few blocks from Muire's."

"What are you doing there?" Elliot asks

There was music in the background, and Elliot could tell it was Irish music playing in the pub.

She doesn't answer soon.

"Olivia, are you sure you're okay?"

"You sound breathless" Olivia says to him

"Why can't you talk?" Elliot asks

"It's loud, listen, I'll see you in a bit."

She hung up before he could answer.

She walked out of the pub and tugged her coat close to her. In the distance, she could see halos on street lamps. The rain had begun again. She saw a couple running across the road, where the young woman wore heels and the man held an umbrella over the woman's head. They had just made it to the other side of the street before the light ha changed . Muire O'Brien and James might have done that in this city, she thought. Run to beat a light. On the way to dinner, to a pub, to the theater, to a party to be with other people, to a bed.

Muire O'Brien's marriage had weight, two children as opposed to one. Two young children. And then she thought, how could anything that had proceeded such beautiful children be thought invalid?

* * *

She walked until she saw a familiar facade. The hotel was quiet when she entered and only a clerk, standing in a cone of light behind the reception desk, greeted her. She was enormously relieved that she could remember her room number. As she put the key in the lock, Elliot emerged from the room next door.

"Jesus Christ" he said. His forehead was furrowed, his tie loosened to the middle of his chest. "I've been out of my mind wondering what happened to you."

She blinked in the unflattering hall light and pushed her hair out of her face.

"Do you know what time it is?" he asked, sounding like a parent with an errant child.

She did not.

"It's one am in the morning"

She withdrew the key from it's lock and Elliot stood, holding open his door. Through the door, she could see a meal, virtually untouched, on the desk.

"Come in." he said "You look like hell."

Once inside the door, she let her coat fall from her shoulders.

"You actually look dirty." Elliot said

She slipped off her shoes, which had lost their shape and color. He pulled out the chair from the desk.

"Sit down."

She did as she was told. He sat on the bed, facing her , their knees touching. He had on a white shirt, not the same shirt he had had on earlier. He looked a different man, drawn and exhausted, the eyes lined, an older man than earlier. She imagined that she, too, had aged considerably.

He took her hands in his. Her hands swallowed by his long fingers.

"Tell me what happened" he said

"I've been walking. Just walking. I don't know where I went. Yes, I do. I went to a pub and drank beer."

"I gather it was bad" he said

"You could say it"

"I have you thirty-five minutes, and then I followed you to the address. You must of gone already. I walked up and down the street for an hour and a half, and then I saw a woman who wasn't you leave the building. She had two children with her."

Olivia looked at the uneaten sandwich on the tray. It might have been turkey.

"I think I'm hungry" she said

Elliot reached around, took the sandwich from the tray, and handed it to her. She balanced the plate on her lap, and she shivered slightly.

"Eat some, and then get into a hot bath, do you want me to order you a drink?"

"No, I think I've had enough, you're being very parental."

"Jesus, Olivia."

She looked down.

"I was getting ready to go out and hunt you down. I'd already called the number where you'd been, but there was never an answer."

"They were James' children."

He didn't seem surprised.

"You guessed" she said

"It was a possibility, I didn't think about children though. That was her? Muire O'Brien? Leaving the building? His...?"

"Wife" she said "They were married. In a church."

He sat back and she watched the disbelief turn reluctantly to belief.

"In a Catholic Church" Olivia said

"When?"

"Five and a half years ago."

On the bed was an overnight bag, unzipped at the top. The shirt he'd worn earlier was peeking out the bag. Bits of a newspaper had fallen off the bed and onto the floor. On the desk, there was a half empty bottle of mineral water.

She saw that he was examine her, as a doctor might do. Looking at the face for signs of illness.

"I'm over the worst of it" she said

"You're clothes are ruined."

"They'll dry out"

He held her knees.

"I'm so sorry Olivia"

"I want to go home"

"We will." he said "First thing tomorrow, we'll change the tickets."

"I shouldn't have come" she said, handing him the plate back.

"No."

"You tried to warn me"

He looked away.

"I am hungry" she said "But I can't eat this."

"I'll order you fruit and cheese, some soup."

"That would be nice"

She stood up and then faltered. She felt light headed. He stood with her, and she pressed her forehead against his shirt.

"All those years" she said "It was all false"

"Shhh..."

"He had a son Elliot, another daughter."

He pulled her closer, trying to comfort her.

"All those times we made love" she said "For five years, I made love to the man while he had another woman. Another wife. I did things. We did things. I can remember them..."

"It's okay"

"It's not okay, I sent him notes about how much I loved him, I wrote things on cards to him, he accepted them."

Elliot rubbed her back.

"It's better than I know." she said

"Maybe"

"It's better not to live a lie."

She sensed a quick change in his breathing, like a hiccup. She drew away and saw that he looked drained. He rubbed his eyes.

"I'll take my bath now" she said "I'm sorry to have worried you."

He put a hand up as if to tell her she needn't apologize.

"What matters that you're back." he said, and she could see the strain of not having known on his face.

"You can hardly stand." he said

"I'd like to take the bath here. I don't want to be alone in my room. After the bath, I'll be fine."

She saw that he doubted she would be fine.

* * *

She ran the water hot and emptied a bottle of shower gel into the tub that made a froth of suds. She was startled, when she undressed, to see just how filthy her clothes were. She stood naked in the center of the room. She made dirty foot prints on the white tiles. On a glass shelf were towels and a pretty basket with toiletries.

She put a foot into the water and winced, then stepped in. Slowly, she sank into the tub. She washed her hair and face using the soapy water, too tired to get the shampoo. She pulled a towel off a rack, rolled it and laid it on the lip of the tub. She leaned back, resting her neck on the towel.

A leather toilet kit was perched on the small porcelain sink. She could see Elliot's overcoat slung over the hook of the door. Beyond the door, she could hear a knocking, a door opening, a brief conversation, and then a pause and a door shutting. Room service she thought. She wished she'd ordered a cup of tea, a cup of tea would have been perfect.

The casement window had been opened a crack, and she could hear street sounds below, traffic noise, a distant shout. Even at one am in the morning. She felt drowsy and closed her eyes. It would be an effort to move her body, to climb out of the tub. She willed herself to empty her mind, to think of hot water and soap and nothing else.

When the door opened, she did not move, made no effort to cover herself, thought the bubbles thinned some and the tops of her breasts might have been exposed. Her knees rose from the suds like volcanic islands. Her toes toyed with the chain of the plug. He'd ordered tea, a glass of brandy.

He laid the cup and glass on the edge of the tub. He stood back and leaned back against the sink, put his hands into the pockets of his pants. He crosses his legs at the ankles. She knew that he was looking at her body.

"I'd mix them together if I were you." he said

She sat up to do so as he suggested.

"I'll leave you alone." he said

"Don't go."

Behind him, the mirror over the sink was opaque with steam. Near the window, outside air mixing with the heat created wisps of cloud. She poured the brandy into the tea, stirred the two together, and took a long swallow. Immediately, she felt the heat at the center of her body. The medicinal properties of the brandy were amazing, she thought.

She held the teacup with soapy fingers.

His jaw moved, he might have sighed. He took a hand out of his pants pocket and rubbed the beads of moisture on the lip of the sink with his thumb.

"I'll need a robe" she said.

* * *

In the end, she told hime everything. In the dark, lying on his bed, she told him every word she could remember of the meeting in the white town house. He listed without saying much, murmuring here and there, once or twice asking a question. She wore the terrycloth hotel robe, and he stayed dressed. He trailed his fingers up and down her arm as she spoke. When they grew chilly, he pulled a comforter over them. She burrowed her head into the space between his chest and his arm. In the dark, she felt the unfamiliar warmth of his body, heard his breathing next to her. She thought there might be something else that she wanted to say, but before could form the words, she drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 **I'm sorry for such a later update, but I hope you enjoyed, I love that this is getting more EO for you guys and I really appreciate that you guys have stuck it out this long! Reviews are appreciated! **


	19. Returned

**Alright, here is another chapter! This is a chapter full of good bombshells, so enjoy! Tell me what you think in a review!**

* * *

The next morning she sat on the edge of the bed in the white robe, trying to repair a hole that had appeared on her skirt with the sewing kit she'd found in the basket of toiletries . Elliot had been on the telephone, talking with the airline, changing plane tickets, but now he was polished her shoes. An oblong of sunlight lit the room from behind the white net curtain. She thought she had probably not moved at all while she had slept. When she'd woken, Elliot had already showered and dressed.

"These are almost unsalvageable" Elliot said

"I only have to make it home."

"We'll go down to breakfast" he said "Have a real breakfast."

"That would be nice"

"There's no hurry"

She sewed patiently and evenly, as Serena had once, long ago taught her to do. She was aware that Elliot was watching her intently, her gestures seemed to be taking on a special precision, being so closely observed.

"You look almost happy" she said, glancing up at him.

The insanity of yesterday lurked in the shadows. Olivia knew, and it would always be there, a dark place in a lighted room. It would nag at her, drag her down when she let it. She thought then that she ought to be able to say she'd had the worst, got it over with. She could almost feel the freedom of that, to live one's life and not to be afraid.

But she knew already that such freedom was an illusion and that there might be more to come. All she had to do was imagine Julia on the plane that had gone down. Life could dish out worse than Olivia had had, and worse than that. In fact, she thought, her life might be all the more harrowing for knowing what was out there.

She put down her sewing and watched Elliot buff her shoes. The gestures reminded her of James, his foot perched on the pulled out bread drawer. How long ago was that exactly? She rose from her chair and kissed Elliot at the side of his mouth, her hands full with the stitching, his with her shoes. She could feel his surprise. She put her wrists on his shoulders and looked at him.

"Thank you for coming with me to London." she said "I don't know how I'd gotten through last night without you."

He looked at her, and she could see that he wanted to say something.

"Let's eat" she said quickly "I'm starved"

* * *

The dining room had wood paneled wainscoting with a subdued blue wallpaper above it. There was a red oriental on the floor. They were shown to a table in a bow window framed with heavy drapes. Elliot gestured for her to take the seat in front of the window. The table was laid with heavy white linen, nearly stiff from its pressing, and set with silver and a china she didn't recognize. She sat and put her napkin in her lap.

She glanced at the window at her side. The sun glistened on the washed street, the room reminded her of drawing rooms in British Films. A fire burned in the grate, and they had ordered eggs and sausages, toast in a silver rack. The coffee was hot, and she blew over the edge of the cup.

She looked up and saw the woman standing in the doorway. Coffee spilled onto the white tablecloth. Elliot had his napkin out to blot the mess, but Olivia stayed his hand. He turned to see what she had seen.

The woman walked quickly toward their table. She wore a long coat over a short wool skirt and sweater. The woman had drawn her hair up into a ponytail, and she looked frightened. As she approached the table, Elliot stood up, startled.

"I was unforgivably cruel to you yesterday." the woman said straightaway to Olivia

"This is Elliot Stabler" Olivia said

He held out his hand.

"Muire O'Brien" the woman murmured by the way of introduction, which he hadn't needed. "I need to speak with you" she said to Olivia and then hesitated. Olivia understood the hesitation to refer to Elliot.

"It's all right" Olivia said

Elliot gestured for the woman to sit down.

"I've been angry" Muire O' Brien began. She spoke hurriedly, as though she had little time. Sitting closer to the woman she she had yesterday, Olivia could see that Muire had the same enlarged pupils as her daughter. "Angry since the accident" Muire commented "Actually, I've been angry for years. I had so little time with him."

Olivia was astonished. Was she meant to forgive the woman? Here in this room? Now?

"It wasn't suicide" Muire said

Olivia felt her mouth go dry. Elliot asked, still operating in a world the women had abandoned, if Muire could like a cup of coffee. She shook her head tensely.

"I have to hurry" Muire said "I've left my house, you won't be able to get in touch with me."

The woman's face was pinched. Remorse did not produce such features, Olivia knew. But fear could.

"I have a brother whose name in Michael" Muire said "I had two other brothers. One of them was shot by paramilitaries in front of his wife and three children as they ate dinner. The other one was killed in an explosion."

Olivia tried to process the information. She thought she understood. She felt buffeted, as though someone had knocked into her.

"I'd been a courier since I'd started with the airline." Marie continued "It's why I went with United, for the New York-Heathrow route. I carried cash from America to the U.K. Someone else would then see that it made it's way to Belfast."

Later, it would seem to Olivia that it was here that time stopped all together, looped around itself and then slowly began to unwind. The world around her, the diners, the waiters, the vehicles on the street, even the shouts from passersby, existed in a kind of watery pool. Only her immediate surroundings, herself, Muire O'Brien, Elliot, the white linen with its coffee stain, seemed sharply defined.

A waiter came to the table to blot the coffee, replace the napkin. He asked Muire if she wanted to order breakfast, but she shook her head. The three sat in awkward silence until the waiter had left.

"I'd met at each airport, New York and Heathrow, coming and going. I had an overnight bag. I was to put the bag down in the crew lounge and walk away. A few seconds, I'd pick it up again. Actually, it was quite easy." The dark haired woman reached across for Elliot's water glass, and took a sip. "Then I met James." she said "and I got pregnant."

Olivia felt her feet go cold.

"When I left the airline, Michael came to the house." Muire said "He asked James if he would carry on. He appealed to James' Irish Catholic heritage," she paused, rubbed her forehead "My brother is a very passionate man, very persuasive. At first James was upset with me because I hadn't told him. I hadn't wanted to involve him. But then, gradually, he became intrigued. He was drawn to risk, certainly, but it was more than that. He began to take on the cause for himself , to become a part of it. As time went on, he became almost as passionate at my brother."

"A convert" Elliot said

Olivia closed her eyes and swayed.

"I'm not trying to hurt you by telling you this." Muire said to Olivia "I'm trying to explain."

Olivia opened her eyes. "I doubt you could hurt me any more than you have done" she said

Unlike yesterday, the woman sitting across from her seemed unkempt, as though she'd slept in her clothes. The waiter came with a coffee pot, and Elliot quickly waved the man away.

"I knew that James was in over his head." Muire said "But he seemed a man who was not afraid to get in over his head." she paused. "Which is why I loved him."

The sentence stung. And then Olivia thought, surprising herself with the thought: It was why he loved you. Because you offered him this.

"There were others involved." Muire said "People at Heathrow, in Belfast."

Muire picked up a fork and began to scratch the tablecloth with the tines.

"The night before James' trip" she continued " a woman called and told him he was to carry something the other way. JFK to Dublin. The same procedures would be in place. It wasn't absolutely unprecedented. It had happened once or twice before. But I didn't like it. It was riskier. Security is tighter leaving JFK than arriving. But in essence, the task itself wasn't that much different."

Muire put down the fork. She looked at her watch and spoke more quickly.

"When I heard about the crash, I tried to reach my brother. I was frantic. How could they have done that to James? Had they lost their minds? And politically, it was insane. To blow up an American plane? For what purpose? It guaranteed to turn the entire world against them."

She put her fingers to her forehead and sighed.

"Which of course, was the point"

She fell silent.

Olivia had the anxious sense of receiving important messages in code, a code that needed immediate deciphering.

"Because it wasn't them" Elliot said, slowly understanding

"It wasn't the IRA who planted the bomb."

"No, of course not" Muire said

"It was intended to discredit the IRA" Elliot said, nodding slowly

"When I couldn't reach my brother" Muire added "I thought they'd killed him too, and then I couldn't reach anyone."

Olivia wondered where Muire's children were right this very minute. With A?

"My brother finally called last night. He's been hiding. He thought my phone..." she gestured with her hands

Around her, Olivia was vaguely aware that other diners were eating toast and drinking coffee, perhaps conducting business.

"James didn't know what he was carrying." Elliot said almost to himself, putting it together for the first time

Muire shook her head. "James never carried explosive material. He was very clear about that. It was understood."

In her mind, Olivia saw the scuffle on the plane.

"That's why James doesn't say anything on the tape" Elliot says "just as shocked as the engineer."

And Olivia thought then: James too, was betrayed.

"It's all coming apart" Muire said and stood up "You should go home as soon as you can"

She put a hand on the table, leaned down close toward Olivia, who caught a brief scent of stale breath, unwashed clothing.

"I came here" Muire said "because your daughter and my children are related. They have the same blood."

Did Muire O'Brien mean for an understanding to pass between the two women, an elemental understanding? Olivia wondered. But then, almost simultaneously, she realized that of course the two women were linked, however much Olivia might wish it was not true. By children, certainly, half sisters and half brothers, but also by James. Through James.

Muire straightened, clearly about to leave. Panicky, Olivia realized she might never see the woman again.

"Tell me about James' mother" Olivia blurted in a rush, an admission.

"He didn't tell you then?" Muire asked

Olivia shook her head.

"I thought he hadn't" Muire said thoughtfully. "Yesterday when you were there..."

Muire paused.

"His mother ran away with another man when he was nine." she said

"James always maintained he was dead" Olivia said

"He was ashamed he'd been left. But, oddly, he didn't blame his mother. He blamed his father, his father's brutality. Actually, it's only been recently that James could acknowledge his mother at all."

Olivia looked away, embarrassed for having asked.

"I absolutely must go now." Muire said "I'm putting you both at risk by being here."

The accent might of done it, Olivia thought. Acted as a trigger. Or was she simply searching for a reason for the inexplicable: why a man fell in love?

Elliot quickly glanced quickly from Muire to Olivia and back again. He had an expression on his face Olivia had never seen before, anguished.

"What?" Olivia asked him

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if he would say something but then had thought the better of it.

"What?" Olivia repeated

"Goodbye" Muire said to Olivia "I am sorry."

Olivia felt dizzy. How long had it been since Muire O'Brien had walked through the doorway. Three minutes? Four?

When she looked up Muire was gone. And she and Elliot were left. Olivia stood up, and her napkin fell to the floor. Her movements startled the other dinners, who glanced over at her with expressions of faint alarm.

She walked from the dining room straight upstairs towards the hotel doors. She had gotten her key out and entered her room, closing the door behind her. Not nearly a minute later had Elliot followed her. A knock on the door made her turn around, opening the door.

"Olivia, why did you-" he said, breathlessly

"I want to go to Ireland. As soon as possible"

* * *

 **So what do you think?**

 **If you are confused as to what James was involved in heres a explanation: James and Muire had connections with other countries, and James and Muire did illegal importing through Muire's brother, Michael. The bomb in James' bag that caused the plane to explode was planted there because of Muire and her brother's illegal importing schemes.**

 _ **Anyways, hope you liked the chapter, and please review!**_


	20. Puzzle Pieces

**Hello All! I am very sorry for such a long delay. I have started school, it's my senior year, I play a varsity as well. College apps as well! Anyways here is a new chapter and thanks for waiting! Don't forget to review!**

* * *

She stepped out of the steaming shower and allowed the cold air to hit her. She had suddenly decided to go to Ireland, to find a reason as to why she was even going . Yesterday, she had told Elliot she had wanted to go to Ireland after Muire had explained everything, and he had been surprised, wondering why she would go to the country where her husband was killed, where his wife had came from. She grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it. The comb from the toiletry kit she had brought ran through her hair and made it past her shoulders. Afterwards, she dried her face and put on some eye makeup, basic enough to make her feel better than she really looked.

Turning around and seeing her outfit, a purple ribbed long sleeve fitted top and a pair of dark jeans. She hadn't brought another coat but only had to use hers, which was damp, but she liked it, since it was ankle length and the tan color complimented her well. She walked out the bathroom and into her room. Elliot was on the floor, doing pushups, despite his attire being his coat and dress shirt.

"I'm ready." Olivia said

Elliot finished his last push up and got up. He was sweaty but he approached the bathroom.

"I'll be out in two minutes"

Olivia sat on the bed and looked at her feet. She was blistered and bleeding nearly from having to walk for blocks yesterday, but today she felt better. Elliot was out nearly three minutes later, having taken a quick shower and getting dressed.

"I have the flight for noon, we should leave now if we want to make it through security."

It was nine thirty. London Heathrow was insane, even more insane than JFK. She knew he was right.

* * *

She was trying to read the map while remembering to drive on the left, a challenge that taxed all of her concentration , so that it was time before she realized the irony of being on Ireland's freeway, which was leading her towards Ashbourne, exactly where she didn't want to go. The flight had been uneventful, the car rental straightforward. She felt a physical urgency to get to her destination. By landing in Belfast, she had missed the city of Galway completely, as Dublin was the only flight out for the day.

"You sure you want to drive? I can drive."

Olivia was exhausted, and she honestly didn't know where she was going, let alone trying to get used to the fact that she had to drive on the left side of the road.

She had gotten off the freeway and had pulled over in a parking lot, where Elliot had switched to the drivers side. He'd driven in Ireland before, due to his family trips and visits.

"Alright, we're heading towards Dublin."

The unadorned white cottages and pastureland were marred only by wired fences, telephone poles, and occasionally a satellite dish. The hill seemed to change their color and even their shape, depending on how the sun shifted through the fair weather clouds. The land looked ancient , trespassed upon, and the hill had a worn and mossy work, as though they had been trampled by feet. On the ridge of hills closest to the road, she could see the scattered white dots of hundreds of sheep, the plowed and furrowed bits of patchwork, the low green hedgerows that border the crops like lines drawn by a child.

This would not be what the blood struggle had been about, as she thought as Elliot drove. It was something else she'd never fathom, never understand. Though James, in arrogance or love, had presumed to do so, had involved himself in Northern Ireland's complex conflict, even it is was lingering, thus causing Olivia and Julia to be peripheral, unwitting, participants.

She knew few facts about the troubles, only what she'd absorbed, like everyone else, from headlines and from televisions when events occurred that were catastrophic enough to make news in the United States. She'd read about the violence of the 70's, the hunger strikes, the cease fire of 94, and the breakdown of the cease fire, but she knew little about the why of it all. She'd heard of knee capping, of car bombings, and of men in ski masks entering civilian homes but she had no sense of the patriotism driving these terrorist activities.

What baffled her now, though, was not the reason for such conflict, but James' participation in it, a reality she could barely absorb. Had he believed in the cause, or had he been drawn by its seeming authenticity. She could see the appeal of that, the instant meaning given to a life. The falling in love itself, the romantic idealism, the belonging to a righteous organization, and event he religion would have been part of the whole. It would have been a total giving over of oneself to a person or an ideal, and in this case the two would have been inextricably linked. Just as the cause would have been part of the love affair, the love affair would have been part of the cause, so that you couldn't, later, have one without the other. Nor could you leave one without the other. Seen in this light, she thought, the question wasn't so much why James had taken up with Muire O'Brien and married her in a Catholic Church, but rather why he hadn't left Julia and Olivia.

Because she had loved Julia too much, she answered herself at once.

She wondered if James and Muire had actually been legally married. Did a wedding in church automatically confer legal status? She didn't know how it worked, or how Muire and James had specifically worked it. And she would never know. There was so much now that would never know.

When she had landed in Ireland, she showed her passport at the checkpoint and passed into the Republic of Ireland. The more Elliot drove towards Dublin, the less greenery, more buildings, more city like areas.

They entered the city and she noticed the Georgian buildings, the architecture, and massive gothic like churches. They pulled up to their hotel, more of a bed and breakfast. Elliot had booked it and it was a few blocks from downtown. The front door of the brick building was led by a dozen stairs. Elliot had parked the car and taken both of their luggage. He opened the door and allowed her to step in first, both of them walking into a living room with a man watching the EURO cup, a cup of tea in his hand.

"Hello, you checkin in?" The man said in a heavy Irish accent

Elliot put down the luggage

"Yes, Stabler"

The man guided the both of them through a hallway to a small office, checking them in and giving them both room keys. The large house reminded Olivia of her brownstone, but scattered with more rooms. Their room was on the third floor. As soon as they got off the elevator, they walked to the end of the hallway. Olivia opened the door and found a double bed room with a window looking out at the backyard.

Elliot placed her suitcase on one of the beds, and his on the other.

"You want some tea?" Elliot said, pointing to the tea pot in their room

Olivia had noticed that in most of the hotels that she had stayed in at London was that each room had their own tea kettle, a self heating one, so tea was a instant thing.

"Sure" she said

She took off her coat and flung it over the desk chair. Elliot set up the kettle and went into the bathroom. He came out a minute later and poured her a cup of tea.

"Olivia, why are we here?" he asked, handing her the tea cup

She looked down at her feet, putting her tea cup on the bedside table next to her.

"I need to be able to let go of him, to see where he went down, to let go."

"He isn't coming back Liv-"

"I know."

"Olivia, you don't deserve to be sad."

She looks up at him, seeing him pull the chair from the desk and facing her.

"It hurts" she says quietly

"Excuse me?"

"Having poured your best self into someone and still being their second choice, and maybe not even that? It hurts. Especially when you know their heart's gonna get broken, and they'll try to make you think you still have a chance again."

Elliot looks at her eyes, seeing them glazed over.

"God, loving someone who doesn't love you back hurts."

"You're going to be okay. It'll work itself out."

"I wish I could believe that" she sighs

He gets up and sits next to her, putting his hand on top of her leg.

"Olivia, sure you feel like your body's on fire and slowly disintegrating to ashes, but the fames are all in your head Olivia. And you can put them out yourself, you don't have to watch yourself fade away. You're going to be okay, maybe not today or tomorrow but it will take a long time, but fuck, is it worth it? Right? Don't you ever let me hear you say again that he left because he couldn't love you enough, there is no such thing as "too broken", not to the ones who are worth it anyway. He's an idiot for having done this all to you, but you know what? It's a natural, excruciating part of life, some people walk into your life with no intention to leave but one day you'll wake up reaching out to kiss him good morning, but he's no where to be seen. But thats all on him, you can't rip yourself to shreds searching for an answer that you never got. You're not a fucking puzzle with a missing piece, you do not need him to complete you."

He takes her hand and squeezes it, his head leaning against hers as she leans on his shoulder.

"Thank you."

Elliot gets up and grabs her coat from the desk chair.

"Lets go, drinks on me" he says, giving Olivia her coat

"Good, I could use a few."

* * *

 _ **If any of you want to follow my social media, I have an instagram, its norahalloran, feel free to follow. Anyways please leave a review!**_


	21. Relief

_**I am sorry for such a delay. So much has happened in my life in two months. Four months of my senior year in high school and its crazy! Im sorry to neglect you guys, I love this story! Here you are with one of the longest chapters. Enjoy and please leave a review!**_

* * *

As she watched Elliot drive, certain memories pricked at her, nagged at her. She knew it might be months or years before they stopped. The thought, for example, that James might have taken money from her and Julia to give to another family was insupportable, and she could feel her blood pressure rising in the car. Or the fight, she remembered suddenly, that horrible fight for which she'd blamed herself. The gall of him, she thought now, letting her believe her own inadequacies had been the cause, when all along he was having an affair with another woman. Was that what James had been doing on the computer that time? Writing to a lover? Is that why he'd been willing to escalate to hostilities so quickly when he'd asked her if she wanted him to go? Had he been flirting with the idea?

Or the lines of poetry, she thought. Had James relaxed his vigilance and allowed bits of his relationship with Muire Boland to seep into his marriage with Olivia? Had Olivia's life been invaded in ways she'd never noticed? How many books had she read or films had she seen that Muire might have suggested? How much of the Irish woman's life had leached into her own?

Again, Olivia would never know.

Elliot turned off the main road, following the directions they'd been given to the most northwesterly point in Ireland. Astonishingly, the road became even narrower, no wider than her driveway. She wondered as they drove why she had never imagined an affair. How could a woman live with a man all that time and never suspect? It seemed, at the very least, a monumental act of oblivion. But then she thought she knew the answer even as she asked the question: A dedicated adulterer causes no suspicion, she realized, because he truly does not want to be caught.

Olivia had never even thought to suspect; she'd never smelled a trace of another woman, never found a smear of lipstick on the shoulder of a shirt. Even sexually, she'd never guessed. She'd assumed the falling off she and James had experienced was simply the normal course of events with a couple who'd been married for years.

She rolled down her window so that she could breathe the air — a curiously heady mix of sea salt and chlorophyll. The land around her, she realized suddenly, was extraordinary. The texture of the landscape — its rich green hues, its density — gave a feeling of solidity she'd not felt in London. She breathed evenly and deeply for the first time since Muire O'Brien had appeared at the hotel dining-room door.

They entered a village, and would have passed through but for a sight she'd seen before: Only the old fisherman was missing. She told him to slow the car and they stopped. She sat parked along a common ring with shops and homes. She could see where the cameraman must have stood, where the reporter had conducted her interview in front of the hotel. The building was white and smooth and clean. She saw the sign above the door: Malin Hotel. She thought that they should get a room for the night. Their flight back to London didn't leave until the morning. Maybe she ought to get something to eat as well. Elliot stepped out of the car and opened the passenger door, following her into the hotel bar.

It was several minutes before her eyes adjusted enough so that she could make out the scuffed mahogany of the traditional bar. She noted the scarlet drapes, the stools with beige vinyl tops, the dreariness of the room alleviated only somewhat by a fire at one end. Along the walls were banquettes and low tables and perhaps half a dozen people playing cards or reading or drinking beer.

Olivia sat at the bar and ordered a cup of tea. Almost immediately, a woman with blond sculpted hair claimed the stool next to hers. She sat between the woman and Elliot. Olivia turned her head away and examined the signs above the register. Too late, she understood that the people in the bar were reporters.

The woman's face was reflected in the mirror behind the bottles. She was flawlessly made up and looked distinctly American. Their eyes met.

"Can I buy you a drink?" the woman asked, speaking quietly.

Olivia realized immediately that the hushed voice was because the blond didn't want anyone else in the bar to know that Olivia was there.

"No, thank you," Olivia said.

Elliot closed in next to her, attempting to say something until the woman spoke again.

The woman gave her name, the call letters of her network. "We sit in the bar here," she explained. "The relatives sit in the lounge. Occasionally a husband or a father will wander in here and order a drink, but in terms of conversation, we've pretty much exhausted each other. We're all bored. I'm sorry if that sounds callous."

"I imagine even a plane crash can grow tedious," Olivia said.

The bartender set down Olivia's tea and the journalist ordered a half pint of Smithwick's.

"I recognized you from the photographs," the reporter said. "I'm sorry for all that you've had to go through."

"Thank you," Olivia said.

"Most of the bigger networks and news organizations will keep someone in place until the salvage operation is abandoned," the woman said.

Olivia made her tea strong and sweet and stirred it to release the heat.

"Do you mind if I ask why you're here?" the journalist inquired.

Olivia took a tentative sip, making eye contact with Elliot. The woman didn't seem to notice that they were there together.

"I don't mind," she said. "But I can't give you an answer. I don't know why I'm here myself."

She thought about her rage and the gravitational pull, about the newfound knowledge of the morning. About how easy it would be to offer to the blond all she had learned. How excited the reporter would be to have what would undoubtedly be the biggest story of the entire investigation, even bigger than the leak of the tape. And once the story was printed, wouldn't the authorities find Muire O'Brien? Arrest her and send her to jail?

But then Olivia thought about the baby who looked like Julia, about Siobhan.

"It wasn't suicide," she said. "That's all I can tell you."

Robert would have known all along, Olivia thought. He'd have been briefed before he ever came to the house. The union had suspected James and had asked Robert to keep an eye on her. Robert would have watched and waited for some sign that she knew about her husband's activities, could name the other pilots. Robert had used her.

She no longer had any interest in her tea. The urgency to reach her destination had returned. She got up off her stool.

"Look, can we at least talk?" the reporter asked.

"I don't think so," Olivia answered.

"Are you going out to Malin Head?"

Olivia was silent.

"You won't be able to get out to the site. Here."

The blond removed a card from her wallet, turned it over, and wrote a name on it. She handed it to Olivia.

"When you get there, ask for Danny Moore," she said. "He'll take you out there. This is my card. When you're done, if you change your mind, give me a call. I'm staying here. I'll buy you dinner."

Olivia took the card and looked at it. "I hope you get to go home soon," she said.

On her way out of the hotel, as she passed the lounge, Olivia glanced in and saw a woman sitting in an armchair with a newspaper on her lap. The paper hadn't been opened, and the woman wasn't looking at the type. Olivia thought the woman could not see anything at all in front of her, so vacant was her gaze. By a fireplace at the far end of the room, a man with a similar look stood with his hands in his pockets.

She recrossed the common and got into the car with Elliot. She looked again at the card in her hand.

She already knew what she would do. She could not control what actions Robert Shriver might eventually, or even immediately, take. But she could control what she herself would do. Indeed, she felt, in a quiet way, more in control of herself than she had been in years.

To reveal what she knew about the reasons for the plane's explosion would mean that Julia would discover James ' other family. And Julia would never get over that. Of this, Olivia was certain. She ripped the card into pieces and let them fall to the floor of the car.

Knowing her destination was not far, Olivia and Elliot once again followed signs for Malin Head. They passed ruined cottages, no more than toppled stones, the thatched roofs long fallen in and rotted. She saw velvet grass bunched along a cliff — an emerald green even in the dead of winter. On ropes strung from pole to pole, clothes stiffened in the sun, the abstract art of wash on the line. Good drying weather, she thought. As they rounded a corner, the horizon line of the North Atlantic surprised her. In the middle of that horizon line was a dark gray shape, a ship. A helicopter circled overhead. Brightly colored fishing boats hovered near the larger ship, like pups with a mother seal. The salvage boat, she thought.

This, then, was the place where the plane had gone down. Elliot parked the car and allowed her to get out first. Walking as far as she dared toward the edge of the cliff., she saw below her three hundred vertical feet of rock and shale descending to the sea. From such a height, the water looked stationary, a scalloped border on a distant beach. The spray hit the rocks below in star-bursts. A red fishing boat was headed in toward shore. For as far as Olivia could see, the water was a single color, gunmetal blue.

She doubted she had ever seen a more theatrical piece of coastline — raw and deadly, wild. It put a disaster in perspective, she thought, if anything could. There had probably been many disasters here.

She followed the fishing boat with her eyes until it disappeared behind the jutting peninsula that was Malin Head itself. Getting into the the car again, Elliot silent, they drove the narrow road, keeping the boat in sight when she could catch glimpses of it. It pulled into a small harbor formed by a long concrete pier. She made him stop the car and got out. Elliot followed her, going up behind her and handing her his wool coat. The mist from the ocean hit his face, constantly having him to wipe it away.

The boats tethered to the pier were shiny with primary colors — orange, blue, green, and yellow — making her think more of Portuguese vessels than of Irish ones. The boat she'd been watching maneuvered around the pier and then threw out her mooring line. Olivia walked toward the pier. There were uniformed guards at one end, and beyond them groups of men in civilian dress. As she walked, the fisherman aboard the red boat unloaded a piece of silver metal the size of a chair and placed it on the pier, where it immediately captured the attention of the men in civilian dress, who crowded around it. One of the men stood and beckoned to the driver of a truck, which backed onto the pier. The metal shard, presumably a piece of James' plane, was loaded onto the truck.

At the entrance to the pier, a guard stopped her. "Can't go beyond this point, miss."

Perhaps he was a soldier. A policeman. He held a machine gun.

Elliot took a step up, trying to intimidate the man the smallest way he could. Being an off duty cop right now with no gun wouldn't help the situation much.

"I'm a relative, and this is my brother, Elliot." she said, eyeing the gun.

Elliot looked at her oddly, but knew she needed to get past the man.

"Sorry for your loss, Ma'am," the guard said. "There are scheduled trips for the relatives. You can inquire about them at the hotel."

Like a whale watch, Olivia thought. Or a cruise.

"I just need to talk to Danny Moore for a second," Olivia said.

"Oh, well then. That's him there," the guard said, gesturing. "The blue boat."

Olivia murmured a thank you and they walked briskly past the man.

Avoiding eye contact with the officials in civilian dress, who were beginning to notice her, Olivia called out to the fisherman in the blue boat. She saw that he was preparing to leave the pier.

"Wait," she cried.

He was young, with dark hair cut close to the head. He wore a gold earring in his left ear. He had on a sweater that had probably once been ivory colored.

"Are you Danny Moore?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Can you take me out to the site?"

He seemed to hesitate, perhaps also about to tell her of the scheduled trips for relatives.

"I'm the pilot's wife." Olivia said quickly. "I need to see the place where my husband went down. I don't have much time."

The fisherman reached up and took her hand.

He gestured for her and Elliot to sit on a pair of stools in the wheelhouse. Olivia watched as one of the men in civilian dress strode toward the boat. The fisherman untied the mooring, came into the wheelhouse, and gunned the engine.

He said a word she couldn't understand. She leaned forward, but the noise from the engine and the wind made conversation difficult.

The boat, she saw, had been scrubbed clean and bore no signs of fishing. Why fish when there was this task to be performed, this work for which those in charge might pay good money? "I'll pay you," Olivia said, being reminded.

"Ah, no," said the man, looking shyly away. "I don't take money from family."

As soon as the boat rounded the pier, the wind began in earnest. The fisherman smiled slightly when she made eye contact.

"You're from here," Olivia said.

"Yes," he answered, and he again uttered a word Olivia could not make out. She thought it must be the name of the town where he lived.

"Have you been doing this since the beginning?" she shouted. "Since the beginning," he said and looked away. "It's not so bad now, but at first . . ."

She didn't want to think about what it had been like at first. "Pretty boat," she said to change the subject.

"It's grand."

She heard in his accent an uncomfortable reminder of Muire O'Brien.

"Is it yours?" she asked.

"Ah, no. It's my brother's. But we fish together."

"What do you fish for?" Elliot asked, shouting over the engine

The engine made a steady grinding sound through the water. "Crab and lobster," he said.

She stood and turned, facing the bow. Beside her at the wheel, the young man shifted his weight. She teetered some in her shapeless heels. "You fish now, in this cold?" she asked, clutching Elliot's coat around her.

"Yes," he said. "All weathers."

"You go out every day?"

"Ah, no. We'll make away on a Sunday evening and return on the Friday."

"Hard life," she said.

He shrugged. "It's fine weather we're having now," he said. "There's always mist at Malin Head."

As they drew closer to the salvage ship, Olivia observed the other fishing boats engaged in the operation — gaily colored boats, such as the one she was in, boats too festive for their ugly task. On the deck of the salvage boat, divers stood in wet suits. The helicopter continued to hover overhead. The debris, of course, would have gone down over a large area.

Behind the fisherman's head, Olivia noted the shoreline, the cliffs with their shalelike geological exposure. The landscape was gothic in its shape, atmospheric even in the good weather, and she could easily imagine this forbidding landscape in a mist.

"This is the loran reading where they pulled up the cockpit," he said.

"This?" she asked. And began to tremble. For the moment. For the proximity of death.

She left the wheelhouse and walked to the port railing. She peered over the edge at the water, at its surface, constantly shifting, though seemingly still. A person was not who he had been the day before, Olivia thought. Or the day before that.

The water seemed opaque. Overhead, gulls circled. She didn't want to think about why the gulls were there, either.

What had been real? she wondered as she studied the water, trying to find a fixed point, which she couldn't. Had she herself been the pilot's wife or had Muire O'Brien? Muire O'Brien, who had been married in the Catholic Church, who knew of James' mother and his childhood. Muire, who knew of Olivia, whereas Olivia had not known of her.

Or had Olivia been the real wife? The first wife, the one he had protected from the truth, the wife he wouldn't leave?

The more Olivia learned about James — and she had no doubt now that she would learn more, would find, among James' things when they were returned to her, other references to M — the more she would have to rethink the past. As if having to tell a story over and over, each time a little differently because a fact had changed, a detail had altered. And if enough details were altered, or the facts were important enough, perhaps the story veered in a direction very different from its first telling.

The boat rocked from another's wake, and she braced herself on the railing. Elliot stood and came up behind her, putting his hand on her back and taking hold of her arm. James' had been, she thought, only another woman's husband.

She glanced up briefly at the circling helicopter.

James' would have known his fate, she thought. In the last several seconds, he would have known.

He had called out Julia's name at the end, Olivia decided. She would believe that, and it would be true.

Again, she studied the water. How long had the fisherman been circling? She had lost the ability to perceive the passage of time as it was actually unfolding. When, for example, had the future begun? Or the past ended?

She tried to find a fixed point in the water, but couldn't.

Did change invalidate all that had gone before?

Soon she would leave this place and fly home, possibly ask Elliot to stay with her because she hated being alone. Olivia's life was with Julia. There could be no other reality.

She took her wedding ring from her finger and dropped it into the ocean.

She knew that the divers would not find James, that he no longer existed.

"You all right?" Elliot asked, tucking her into his arms. His forehead was creased, and he looked worried.

She smiled briefly at him and nodded.

To be relieved of love, she thought, was to give up a terrible burden.

* * *

 _ **Don't forget to leave reviews please! I keep writing because of those!**_


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